The Things We Forget
by bambers2
Summary: There are things we forget. Things we don’t want to remember. Darkness resides in all of us, just begging to be released. Sequel to Your Mind Tricked You to Feel the Pain.
1. Chapter 1

_so, This is the sequel to Your Mind Tricked You to Feel the Pain, i guess i would really have to say you have to read the other one first or this won't make a lick of sense to you...i wanted to wait to post this until i was pretty far along in writing it, so here it now is...as always thanks for reading!! lots of angst, pain and craziness ahead...you've been warned!! bambers;)_

_The Things We Forget_

_Chapter One_

"_Not givin' up on him, Bobby," Dean said determinedly, shaking Sam a little harder. "Listen to me, Sammy, you have to wake up now. Ain't gonna let you do this to yourself." Dean shook him even harder. "Damn it, I know you can hear me so wake the hell up," he ordered, using his most authoritative tone. Slowly, Sam's eyelids fluttered open briefly then closed again. "That's it, you can do it, don't let the sonuvabitches win. You fight them, you hear me, Sammy? You fight them for me."_

_Once again, Sam's eyes opened and this time stayed that way. With a great deal of effort, he pushed away from Dean to sit on his own. Sam turned to look at Dean then his attention briefly diverted to Bobby before he glanced back at Dean again, eyes narrowing considerably. Confusion and then a look of anger settled on Sam's face, and for a moment, Dean wondered if Sam even knew who he was._

"_Sam?" Dean questioned, not liking how quiet his brother was when he knew that Sam should be saying something. And the truth of it was, he really needed to hear his brother speak, to know that he was all right. "You okay, Sammy?"_

_Without a word, Sam pushed himself to his feet, headed for the door, opened it and strode through it, calling back over his shoulder, "Name's Bo."_

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Dean shot to his feet and raced after Sam, not understanding all that was going on, but knowing that Sam was in no condition to be left on his own. As he practically stumbled down the first flight of steps in the Roosevelt Asylum, he heard Bobby calling after him, but didn't slow up in the least. Quickly rounding the landing, he took the second set of stairs two at a time, praying all-the-while that Sam wouldn't make it to the entrance before he was able to reach him. With heart pounding in his ears, he leapt off the last of the stairs and sprinted through the old abandoned building.

"Sammy," he shouted as he dodged past toppled over beds, gurneys, wheel chairs, and various other medical equipment. Knocking things out of the way as he went, Dean barged through the double doors leading out of the patient recreation area of the asylum, and practically flew through the old admit area of the hospital, heading straight for the exit. Within a matter of moments, he burst through the front doors of the Asylum, and slammed straight into Sam, nearly knocking his younger brother down.

Sam quickly righted himself, pushing away from Dean as he glanced around the empty street and the buildings lining the road as if he hadn't ever seen them before. His apparent confusion grew as he spun on his heel to look at the Asylum, and then he lowered his sights to Dean. "Hey, ya got a cigarette I could bum off ya?"

Dean cocked a brow, staring in disbelief at his little brother. "You don't smoke . . . never have."

"What the hell are ya takin' about, boy, been smokin' fer years." Sam fumbled through the pockets of his hoodie, searching for a pack of cigarettes, but instead yanked out his cell phone. "What the bloody freakin' hell is this?" He held it out to Dean, and waited for Dean to respond.

"Ummm . . . your cell phone," Dean replied as if the answer should be obvious.

"_Right_," Sam uttered with a note of clear sarcasm as he flipped the phone open, and pushed a few buttons. His hazel eyes narrowed in fear and confusion as he put the phone to his ear and heard a voice coming through from the other end of the phone line. "What the freakin' hell," he hastily threw the phone to the ground. "Holy freakin' hell," he crossed himself as if he were the most devote Catholic, and then stomped on the phone, smashing itinto pieces. "Holy Mother of God . . . that freakin' thing was possessed an ya jus' let me go an' dial up Hell." He crossed himself again as he mumbled the rosary.

"You feelin' okay, Sammy?" Dean stared at the broken pieces of his brother's phone, and then his gaze strayed upward to Sam, and the look of sheer panic on his little brother's face nearly staggered him.

"Told ya already, name's Bo. You a freakin' dumb ass or somethin'?"Sam shifted to look at the asylum once more, and then a smile lit up his face. "Ahhh . . . yer one of the loons . . . got off the crazy train a bit early there, eh, Sparkie?" He chuckled, and although Dean knew it was Sam the sound of his brother's laughter somehow seemed different. And if he had to make a guess as to why, he'd have to say that his laugh sounded hollow and cold, lacking the warmth he knew would normally be present in his brother's laughter. "I'm thinkin' ya better be headin' back inside cause I'm guessin' they got some electric shock therapy with yer name written all over it."

"Look . . . _Bo," _Dean began only to be interrupted by the creaking sound of the front door of the asylum being swung open. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Bobby hobbling out the entrance, and then turned back to look at his brother. "You and me," he gestured between the two of them, "we're friends. You got knocked on the head, an' have a concussion an' the doctor's said your memory might be a bit fuzzy for a bit."

"Uh huh . . . sure." Sam crossed his arms as he narrowed his sights on Dean. "If we're such good freakin' buddies, where was I born?"

"In a hospital," Dean quickly supplied, although he knew it wasn't the answer Sam was looking for, but also understood that Lawrence, Kansas wasn't going to be the right answer either.

"Pikeville, Kentucky, smart ass." Sam touched the area just above his right eyebrow, and then asked, "An' this scar? Sure'in if yer my friend, ya'd know where I got this lil' bugger."

Dean squinted to get a better look at Sam's face and the imaginary scar that was supposedly there, his mind racing to find a reasonable explaination that his brother would accept, but couldn't find any. "Fell off your bike when you were ten?" he finally responded, figuring that was as good of reason as any to have a scar.

"Spelunkin' Mammoth Cave when I was fifteen. Ropes got tangled an' I cracked my skull on the wall of the cave . . . musta hung there fer a good five freakin' hours before my Paw finally found me. Whooped my ass a good one fer disobeyin' him, too. But sure'in ya'd know that cause we're such good friends an' all."

"Dean," Bobby cut in before Dean had a chance to reply, pulling him away from Sam so he could talk to him in private. Before Bobby said another word, he handed Dean two books, and then gestured to the worn leather-bound cover of the top one. "Nod sure whad you remember aboud whad happened, bud I don't think Sabm's possessed." He gingerly touched his broken nose, and winced. "Sabm used these books ta bring ya back, an' one of the firsd things you said was they were all gone." He tapped his finger on the top book, and then glanced over at Sam. "Yer Daddy took thebm from some lady nabmed Mildred, an' I'm figurin' they might helb with Sabm."

"My Dad?" Dean raised a brow, and then tilted his head to the side, looking toward the entrance of the asylum. "He's here? Inside? Maybe he can talk some sense into Sammy." He made to walk back toward the door, but Bobby grabbed a hold of his arm and stopped him.

Bobby stared at Dean long and hard for several minutes before he finally asked, "Whad's today's date, Dean?"

Dean thought about it for a moment, never much one for keeping track of the date, and then shrugged. "Think it's November 22nd or maybe the 23rd."

Bobby gave a curt nod. "An' the year?"

"2005," he said without hesitation.

Bobby frowned, wincing as he lightly touched his bruised and swollen lips. "How aboud the last hunt you were on?"

Dean arched a brow, staring at the older man for a moment before he gestured to the building behind them. "Ummm . . . we're standing right outside the building of our last hunt. Burnt Ellicott's bones not more than a half an hour ago, Bobby."

"It's August 30th 2006," Bobby declared without any sort of preamble.

"Not possible," Dean said with a quick shake of his head, narrowing his eyes on the older hunter, worried that Bobby was hurt worse than he appeared if that were even possible. "Might forget the dates sometimes, but I'm thinkin' I know what year it is."

"Yer both freakin' loons," Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes as both men swung to stare him. "All freakin' people who ain't from planet freakin' Crazy-as-a-Jay-bird know it's April 4th 1963."

"Look, I'm gonna call my Dad," Dean yanked his cell phone out of his pocket, his attention momentarily diverted to Sam as his brother shrunk away from the demon phone from Hell, and chuckled as he hit the button to call his father.

Bobby snatched the phone out of his hand, and quickly snapped it shut. "Can'd do dhat, D-Dean." Bobby wobbled precariously, and Dean hastily grabbed hold of the older man's arm in an attempt to keep him from crashing to the ground.

"Better get you to the hospital, Bobby." Dean vision strayed to Bobby's truck that was wrapped around a light pole, and briefly wondered why he hadn't heard the crash. "An' then I'll take care of Bo."

"As long as we can stop on the way there ta get me some smokes, I'm fine with that plan." Sam gave a quick nod and then glanced around the deserted street. "Ya got a car, Sparkie?"

"Over there," Dean nudged his head toward the Impala as he hooked his arm around Bobby's waist. "An' the name's Dean."

"Whatever, Sparkie." Sam let out a low whistle of appreciation as he strode over to the car. "Like yer car, dude. Never saw anythin' like it before." Trailing his fingers over the hood of the car, he glanced up at Dean and smiled. "Love ta get me a car like this one. Musta cost ya a freakin' fortune."

"Dad gave it to me." Dean glanced up quickly from helping Bobby into the backseat of the Impala, and couldn't help but grin as he looked over baby. "She is a beaut, huh."

"Yer Paw must be freakin' loaded ta get ya a car like this."

"Not exactly." Dean shut the back door and was about to slide into his own seat, when Sam caught a hold of his arm.

"Think I could drive?"

"Not a chance in hell." Dean shrugged free, slid into his seat, and slammed the door shut.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Dean followed Sam around the convenient store, amazed at how his brother would stare at little things like he'd never seen them before in his life. Several times his younger brother stopped picked something up and studied it carefully, before scowling and throwing it back on the shelf.

Sam grabbed a pack of peanut M&M's from the shelf, flipped them over, narrowed his eyes at the price, and then glanced up at Dean. "Holy freakin' Mother of God, prices have sky-rocketed since Kennedy was elected. Man's gonna drive us all into the poor house." He tossed the bag down, and Dean quickly snatched it back up again.

"Yep, all Kennedy's fault," Dean agreed as he ripped open the bag and popped a few pieces of candy in his mouth.

Sam wandered over to the coolers lined with soda and beer, opened the door and grabbed a bottle of Coke. "Sparkie, what the hell is Coke classic? Where's the regular Coke, an' why the freakin' hell is it in a plastic bottle?"

"Classic Coke is regular Coke," Dean heaved an aggravated groan, "An' can we jus' get the hell outta here, my head's killin' me what with Bobby in the hospital an' all the freakin' questions you're throwin' at me."

"Whatever, dude," Sam smirked as he twisted off the cap on the bottle of soda, and gulped some of it down. "Still thinkin' they let yer sorry ass out of Roosevelt a little too early."

In silence, they headed over to the cash register. Sam gestured toward the cigarettes kept in a case behind the counter, and then grinned at the young blond-haired girl waiting on him. "Pack of Marlboro's, sweetheart." His grin deepened as the pretty, blue-eyed girl smiled back at him, her face blushing sweetly under his intense scrutiny. "An' one of them lighters, too. Can't seem ta find mine."

"Sure thing, hun." She turned away to get Sam the cigarettes, and he elbowed Dean as he tilted his head slightly and let out a low whistle.

"Hot damn, if I didn't already have me a girl, I'd be all over that." He elbowed Dean in the ribcage again, an' nudged his head toward her as if Dean failed to see how beautiful the young girl truly was. "Kinda like she's dinner an' I'm a starvin' man."

"More like she's jail bait, an' you're about to be cell mates with some guy named Big Ed who thinks you're really kinda hot." Dean was about to say more when his vision strayed to a newspaper lying on the counter, and he nearly choked on the M&M he'd just popped into his mouth. Snatching it off the counter, he stared in utter disbelief at the date on the top corner of the page. "That can't be freakin' right," he muttered to himself as he read _August 30__th__ 2006. _"Excuse me," he managed to choke out, garnering the cashier's attention. "What's today's date?"

"Think it's August 30th," she answered as she rang up Sam's cigarettes.

"Wh-what year?"

She arched a delicate brow as she looked at Dean and then Sam. Sam rolled his eyes, twirling his index finger around the side of his temple, and then nudged his head in Dean's direction. The cashier nodded in understanding and returned her attention to Dean.

"2006," she said and took a backward step as both the Winchesters' jaws dropped wide open.


	2. Chapter 2

_so chappy two...lots of craziness ahead...thanks for reading and for the awesome reviews!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Two_

Dean sat in the front seat of the Impala, staring at the motel directly in front of him, wondering if it was the one they were staying at. If he had forgotten the last several months of his life and Sam was trying to help him remember, his younger brother would have come back to this motel. Dean was almost sure of it. Still nagging doubts crept into his mind as he scrubbed his hand across his face and continued to stare at the whitewashed building. _Gonna make a freakin' fool outta myself if I go in there an' ask if I've been renting a room here._

"Bo, check your pockets an' see if you have a key to get in that room over there." Dean gestured toward the room to the far right. "An' didn't I already tell ya, no smokin' in my car?" He waved away a plume of gray smoke wafting in his direction, a deep-set scowl forming on his features.

"Why the bloody freakin' hell would I have a key ta a motel room here?" Sam cracked a smile as he deliberately blew more smoke in Dean's face.

"Jus' check your damn pockets." Dean was quickly learning that Bo's favorite word was_ freakin_', and that he said it far more than any normal human being ever possibly should. _Holy Mother of God _also spewed from his mouth more times than necessary, and the thing where he crossed himself repeatedly when he thought something might be demonic in nature was really starting to get on Dean's last frayed nerve.

While in the hospital waiting to hear about Bobby's condition, and trip to the convenient store afterwards, Dean hadn't seen even the slightest hint of his brother left in the man who sat beside him. His speech was different. Even his eating habits were different, the two candy bars and box of HoHo's he'd bought at the store, and had polished off on the short drive to the motel were a testament to that. But, smoking was the biggie. Bo smoked like the devil himself, barely finishing one before starting on the next, and nothing Dean said to try and stop him from doing it helped the situation. If anything, it only made matters worse as Bo seemed to really love to bug the hell out of him.

Sam patted down the pockets of his blue jeans, and quirked a puzzled brow when he reached in his right front pocket and yanked out a room key. "How the freakin' bloody hell did ya know that I had the key? Ya freakin' psychic or somthin'?"

"Yeah, just call me Criss Angel. I'm a total Mindfreak." Dean rolled his eyes, already at his wit's end, and briefly wondered what he'd put his little brother through in the months that he couldn't remember.

"Thought ya said yer name was Dean, Sparkie."

"Jus' get out of the car," Dean ordered, tired of going over the same useless argument about Sam not calling him Sparkie, and suddenly understood why it bugged the hell out of his brother to be called Sammy when he hated the nickname. Not that Dean would stop calling him that, but at least now he could understand it better. "An' for God sakes jus' shut up for a while, you're makin' my head spin."

Out of the car, they strode to their motel room in complete silence. At the door, Sam took one last drag off his cigarette, dropped it on the ground, and crushed it into the grass with the toe of his shoe. Sam unlocked the door, hesitated for a moment, looking back over his shoulder. He narrowed his sights on something off to the right, and Dean turned to look in the direction his brother was staring at, only to turn around as he heard the motel room door slam shut. From inside the room he could hear Sam laughing, and with a quick turn of the knob, he realized his brother had locked him outside.

"Open the freakin' door, Sammy!" Dean jiggled the handle for a few more seconds before slamming his open palm against the sturdy wooden surface.

"Name's Bo," Sam uttered between laughs, "an' go find yer own freakin' room cause I ain't sharin' with ya." Curling his hand into a fist, Dean pounded on the door repeatedly, but Sam still refused to let him inside. "Not lettin' ya in, so ya might as well go the hell away, Sparkie."

Dean moved over to the window and peered inside, watching as Sam rifled through their duffels, throwing things aside on the floor as he searched for a clean change of clothes. Once his brother had found what he was looking for, he headed to the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

For a minute or two longer, Dean stood at the window staring in stunned silence at the total disarray the room was in. A chair lay on its side in the middle of the room with ropes dangling over it. He glanced down at his wrists, gingerly rubbed the rope burns he found there, and then looked back up at the chair, understanding dawning on him. Sam had tied him up at some point, but Dean couldn't recall when or why his brother would do that.

Shattered pieces of glass were scattered across the floor near the bathroom, and squinting Dean saw spatters of blood on the white walls and more on the carpeting near the broken glass. A shiver of fear swept over him as he balled his hands into fists, and noticed they were bruised and swollen. He then thought of all the bruises on his brother's face that he'd attributed to hunting Ellicott, but now wondered if he'd caused them. _I couldn't have beaten Sam up. Could've I? _

"What did Bobby say again?" Scrubbing his hand across his face, he then raked his fingers through his hair as he glanced over at the Impala, thinking about the books Bobby had handed to him. "Sam brought me back using those books . . . but brought me back from what? An' why the hell can't I remember the last few months?"

Dean trudged to the Impala, opened the back door and grabbed the books out of the backseat of the car._ Your Mind Tricked You to Feel the Pain, by Mildred Pierce._ His hands trembled as he silently read the title of the manuscript, and wondered what Bobby had meant when he said the books might help to bring Sam back._ What the hell does this have to do with me and Sam?_

Slowly his mind began to whirl with confusing thoughts, some of which he was certain were not his own, but were there nonetheless. Murmuring voices stirred and echoed in his ears, speaking of things he didn't understand, and grew louder with each passing second. Tears burned at his eyes as he dropped to his knees, and clutched the sides of his head.

"What's dead should stay dead!" he hollered over and over again until his throat was so hoarse the words came out in no more than a whisper. Tears streamed down his face as he silently continued to mouth the words. His heart clenched painfully every time he spoke them, but still he didn't understand what they meant or why they should cause him so much pain.

The voices trickled away, his mind clearing as the words died on his lips. When he finally glanced up, he saw a bunch of people standing outside their motel room doors staring at him, and felt heat rising to flush his face. The only door that still remained closed was Sam's. Dean's heart sank a little more, knowing that his brother was lost to him. "Ummm . . . sorry about that." He shrugged. "Thought I'd killed a rat, but apparently not . . . so I ummm . . . was yelling that what's dead should stay dead?"

The patrons of the motel returned to their rooms, grumbling and calling Dean names like_ 'freak'_,_ 'nut job'_ and _'mental case'_ but as long as they were gone he couldn't care less what they thought of him. He slowly made his way to his feet, and lumbered back to his room. Lock or no lock, Sam wasn't keeping him outside any longer. Dean made quick work of picking the lock, and headed inside. Throwing the books down on the table, he strode to the bathroom door and pounded on it.

"Bo, get your ass out here now," he gruffly ordered, his patience at an end. For a few moments, he waited and listened for any signs that Sam was going to unlock the door and come out, and then heard something that made his heart skip a beat, and then set off at a frantic pace. His brother was crying. "Sam?" he called out, his voice instantly softening.

"D-Dean . . . . th-their in my head," Sam muttered, his voice filling and rising with panic, "an' their so loud . . . an' I can't make them go away . . . need to make them go away."

"Sammy, open the door."

"Can't . . . th-they won't let me . . . say it's my fault . . . s-say I deserve to suffer for what I've done."

"Open the damn door, Sam," Dean ordered, fear making his voice rise an octave as he pounded on the door again.

"Jus' want it to stop . . . an' I can't make it stop."

"You near the door?"

"No . . . they won't let me . . . ."

Dean backed away from where he standing, raised his foot and slammed it into the door full force. The wood around the lock splintered and cracked as the door burst wide open. Dean rushed inside and dropped down beside his brother. Sam was huddled in a tight ball, his arms wrapped around his head, fingers curled around his shaggy hair. His body trembled uncontrollably and as Dean tried to place an arm around his little brother, Sam shrunk away from him as if in fear.

"Sammy," Dean began in a low comforting voice, "it's me, Dean."

"Guhh . . . Oh, God . . . D-Dean," Sam's grip tightened around his hair, "feels . . . feels like they're ripping my mind apart."

"Sam, what did you do?" Dean asked, not knowing how long he would have before Bo returned or Sam got worse. "I need to know what you did to bring me back so I can fix this. Please, ya gotta tell me."

"D-don't know . . . can't remember," Sam lifted his head off his knees, and looked up at Dean. Blood dripped from Sam's nose to stain his flannel shirt, and Dean's heart caught in his throat as he saw that his brother's jeans were smeared with it as well. "Th-there are . . . are so many of them . . . too many voices." Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he banged his head against the wall as he softly moaned. "M-make 'em stop . . . Dean . . . pl-please, make 'em stop."

"Gonna make this right, Sammy," Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulders, and felt his brother stiffen briefly before he began trembling again. "I swear to God, I'm gonna fix this."

Abruptly Sam stilled, his breath catching in his throat, the tears streaming down his face turning crimson. Eyes rolling back into his head, he began to jerk and convulse as Dean clung to him.

"Sam . . . Sammy!" Dean shot to his feet, and hauled Sam up, hooking his around his brother's waist.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

_There are things we forget. Things we don't want to remember. Darkness resides in all of us, just begging to be released._

Sam heard the same words over and over inside his mind. First a woman spoke them followed by a man then all the voices inside his head converged, shouting the words. Another darker more sinister voice cut through the din and uttered the words, and Sam shivered involuntarily. He tried to cry out to Dean, but his voice caught in throat, and was lost.

The voices struggled for dominance, the weaker being pushed back to the furthest niches of his mind. His own thoughts swam the violent turbulence, drowning then resurfacing only to be dragged under once more. A virulent sea of memories, not his own, flooded his brain. Hatred, betrayal, loss and murder. Guilt most prevalent, nearly suffocated him.

Dark disturbing images crashed with tidal force over one another, eroding his own thoughts and memories. Like grains of fine sand, his memories scattered, washed away as new memories were formed.

Through the darkness, Sam searched for his brother, his anchor, but found only Dean's unyielding guilt to take solace in. Dean's guilt wrapped firmly around Sam's mind, smothering him.

The other darker voice reemerged, fought with Dean's memories for dominance, and prevailed. Sam inhaled sharply, and his eyes opened suddenly.

"Where the hell am I?" Sam asked as he looked around the room, taking in all the medical equipment.

"Parkside Medical," a young dark-haired nurse replied. "You had some sort of seizure, and your brother brought you in here about an hour ago."

"Don't have a brother." Sam smirked, recalling how he had once had a brother, but had taken care of that little blight on humanity. "Jacob died years ago."

"Jacob?" The nurse raised a brow in confusion. "I'm talking about your brother Dean, Sam."

"Think you got the wrong guy, ma'am. Name's Reeves, an' I gotta tell ya, it doesn't say much for this hospital if ya can't keep yer patients straight."

The nurse rechecked the medical chart, and shook her head in bewilderment. "It says your name is Sam Whitaker, right here."

"I don't give a rat's ass what the damn thing says, my name is Harley Reeves." Sam leered at the young nurse, and chuckled when he noticed her shift uncomfortably and pull the chart she was holding closer to her chest as if to cover herself from his view. He patted the mattress as he slowly ran his tongue along his upper lip. "Care ta join me over here, sweetheart, cause I'd love ta play naughty nurse and patient with ya." She drew in a sharp intake of air, then took several backward steps. Sam's grinned deepened as he relished in her obvious discomfort. "I'll take that as a no then." He laughed even harder as he noticed her blanch considerably. "If you ain't interested in fulfilling all my kinky little fantasies, then you might as well make yourself useful an' get me my damn clothes then get the hell outta here."

"I . . . I'm going to go get the doctor." The nurse spun around and made a hasty exit from the room.

Sam leaned back against his pillow, and rested his head between laced fingers. As he glanced around at his surroundings, a slow smile crept across his features. The door wasn't locked, and when the nurse had left, he hadn't noticed a guard posted outside.

"Guess you're slippin' in your old age, Ellicott." Sam's grin faltered as he recalled the older man telling him he was going to fix what was wrong with him. Closing his eyes, he listened and for the briefest of moments he heard silence, but then the all too familiar low murmuring of voices inside his head broke through the quiet.

_Told you to snap her pretty little neck_. _She's evil just like your mother._ One voice grew to overshadow the others. His father's voice. _What's the matter, Harvey, not man enough to take care of one little woman. You were always weak. Not like Jacob._

Sam squinched his eyelids even tighter closed as excruciating pain radiated from behind his eyes.

"Not true," he shook his head, "Jacob was weak, not me . . . killed him with my bare hands, Dad."

_You're pathetic. Just like your mother._

"No, I'm nothing like her . . . I'm not." Sam pressed his palms against his ears, hoping to silence the sound of his father's cruel voice.

_She dressed you just like a little girl . . . just like a girl. You should have seen yourself wearing a dress with your long dark hair. You looked just like her. _

"No . . . that's not true . . . not true." Sam ripped the IV out of his arm, and leapt off the bed. "Jacob was the weak one . . . you were the weak one." Kicking aside the rolling bedside table, Sam grabbed the IV stand and heaved it at the door. "Killed him, Dad . . . watched as his eyes rolled backward in his head . . . and I laughed. Laughed . . . do you hear me? I laughed as he begged me to stop. Laughed as he died."

In his uncontrollable rage, Sam flipped over the hospital bed, and then turned to look for something more to destroy. Stalking to the chair that sat near the window, he picked it up and heaved it at the window. Glass shattered as chair plummeted out the window.

Anger not yet abated, Sam swung to find something more to break, but stopped short when he noticed a doctor and four security guards standing in the doorway. The guards rushed toward him and grabbed a hold of his arms. Sam kicked and bucked against them, and breaking free of their grip, he slammed his fist into one man's nose. He rounded, and smashed his fist into another guard's stomach, the force of the blow lifting the man off the ground.

Three more guards rushed into the room, and they all converged on Sam, tackling him to the ground. Viciously he fought against them as two men kneeled on his arms, trapping them. Two more men trapped his legs as a fifth man pressed his knee into Sam's stomach.

"We got him, Doc," one of the men said as he turned to look at the doctor. "Better sedate him quickly," he added when Sam began to buck and squirm from beneath the pile of men.

"Don't you freakin' hurt my brother," another man shouted as he pushed past the doctor, and grabbed hold of one of the men kneeling on Sam's leg. Tossing him aside, the man gripped a hold of another man, and hauled him to his feet. "Get the hell off of my brother, you freakin' bastards."

The scruffy-haired man made quick work of removing the remaining men from on top of Sam, and then grabbed a hold of Sam's hand and helped him to his feet. He then swung to glare at the doctor. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Brought my brother here for help, an' this is your freakin' idea of helping him?"

"Ain't your brother," Sam quickly supplied as he yanked his hand away from the older man's. "Don't have a brother."

The green-eyed man swung back to look at Sam. A momentary look of confusion crossed his features and then rapidly disappeared as a scowl settled on his features.

"Bo," the man leaned in and lowered his voice so only Sam could hear it, "don't start with this now. They hear you thinkin' your someone else, an' I'll never get ya out of here."

"What the hell are you talkin' about? The name's Reeves." Sam quirked a brow in confusion as he stared at the man who was pretending like he knew him. "Knew a guy named Bo in Roosevelt. Never liked him. Smart assed sonuvabitch." Sam smirked as he cracked his knuckles. "Actually tried to kill him once." Sam tapped at his right temple as he leaned in and whispered in the man's ear, "But I got 'em all in my head . . . all of 'em . . . all the ones who need to die." He flashed the man a brilliant smile, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the green-eyed man intently. "Gonna kill them all . . . an' ya know what?" He hesitated for a moment, relishing the look of stark fear on the older man's face. "I think I'm gonna kill you too."

Without anymore warning than that, Sam gripped hold of the man's neck, and squeezed at the man's throat with all his strength. The man coughed and sputtered as he tried to break Sam's hold, but Sam dug his thumbs into the man's Adam's apple, choking off his air.

A devious smile slid across his features as he pictured Jacob dying by his hand. "Die Jacob . . . do the world a favor and jus' die."

So intent on killing the man, Sam didn't notice the guards and doctor closing in on him until he felt a sharp pin-prick in his upper arm. Releasing his hold on the scruffy-haired man, he swung to attack them. He took several slow deliberate steps toward the doctor, and then stopped short as the room began to weave in and out of focus.

Sam shook his head, trying to clear the thick fog that was quickly overtaking his mind. Darkness edged in from all sides as his knees buckled and he crashed to the ground. The middle-aged dark haired doctor said something to Sam, but all he could hear was Ellicott's voice, murmuring, _don't be afraid . . . I'm going to help you . . . I'm going to make you all better,_ over and over again as he lost the battle to stay conscious.


	3. Chapter 3

_thanks to everyone for reading and for all the really great reviews. I have to say for as much as i Loved writing Your MInd Tricked You to Feel the Pain, i really love this story more. Hope everyone is enjoying it so far!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Three_

Dean wasn't about to try and fool himself whereas Sam's condition was concerned. Although he was fairly certain he could handle Bo, Reeves was another matter entirely. He was in way over his head, but wasn't about to entrust his brother with the doctors of Parkside Medical. The problem was that while Dean was trying to regain his breath, the guards had whisked Sam away to a locked ward somewhere in the hospital, and no one seemed to be in a hurry to give him any information about his brother.

He'd spoken to several nurses and doctors who all gave him the runaround, and then pushed off the responsibility of Sam's care onto another doctor. And now he was standing in the office of some bug-eyed psychiatrist who looked like he should be a patient of a psyche ward instead of the head of the psychiatry department. The bespectacled man had a nervous tick in the corner of his right eye that was really starting to get on Dean's last nerve. If that wasn't enough, the blasted weasel of a man constantly cleared his throat as he shuffled through Sam's file, and Dean had to grit his teeth not make some sort of biting remark that would only make matters worse.

Dean glanced at the doctor's nameplate on the desk, and then looked to older man. "Doctor Warner, I wanna see my brother now." He pressed the palms of his hands against the man's desk, and leaned threateningly toward the doctor. "Been gettin' the goddamn runaround from everyone here, an' I'm done with it."

"Please take a seat, Mr. Whitaker." The doctor gestured toward the chair in front of his desk, and waited for Dean to sit down. When Dean didn't budge from his spot, the man cleared his throat again, and continued, "I'm afraid your brother has suffered a complete psychotic break from reality. He has become a danger not only himself, but the community as well, and it is my recommendation that he be committed to the psychiatric ward until further notice."

Dean's fingers curled tightly around the edges of the desk as he fought the urge to jump over it and strangle the man within an inch of his life. "There's no way in freakin' hell that I'm havin' my brother committed."

"Afraid you don't have a choice in the matter. As the hospital believes your brother to be a threat to society, we have the right to hold him for seventy-two hours for a full evaluation." The doctor cleared his throat again as he shuffled through his files once more. "After that time we will make further determinations regarding his care."

"Wanna see my brother now." Dean slammed his hand down hard on the desk, sending papers scattering across the surface, and the older man flinched.

Doctor Warner pushed his glasses up to rest on the bridge of his nose as he warily eyed Dean. Once again he cleared his throat and gestured toward the chair he'd asked Dean to sit down on before. "I think you fail to grasp the gravity of the situation, Mr. Whitaker. Since your brother was admitted to Parkside, he's assaulted two security guards, almost strangled you, and that's not even mentioning the fact that he has displayed marked characteristics of a person suffering from schizophrenia. So far while here, Sam has exhibited two separate and distinct personalities, and I am almost positive there are others as well."

"Two?" Dean swallowed hard as he dropped down onto the seat. In the back of his mind a low murmuring began to stir, and grew louder with each passing second. Over and over again the same words echoed inside his head, and yet he had no idea what they meant.

_There is a cold dark place_ _in my mind. It is where the soul seeks comfort, but finds none. From shallow graves and sleepless nights I have somehow lost my way. I may not want to understand it, but as time goes on this journal will be my only way to recall what has happened and what has been lost along the way._

_No. No. No. No. No. . . not now . . . please not now. Sammy needs me. _

A sudden surge of electrified pain ripped through Dean's heart. Vision blurring, he arched forward in his chair as another volt of electricity coursed through his entire body. The room faded to ashen gray as long corridor came into focus. Like an old time movie, the scene played out in his mind in black and white. Sam stood leaning against the doorframe of some hospital room, looking at whoever was lying in the hospital bed. Dean stood behind him in a white t-shirt and pajama bottoms. And directly behind them both stood Dean watching the whole scene unfold before his eyes.

Dean watched as the Dean in his vision tried to talk to Sam, but it was as if the mute button was clicked on so he couldn't hear a word the other Dean was saying to his brother. What was more, Sam didn't even seem to acknowledge the other Dean's presence in the slightest.

Another jolt tore through Dean's body and he found himself inside the hospital room. He glanced back and saw that Sam was still standing in the doorway with the Dean in hospital attire right behind him. Tears slid unchecked down his brother's cheeks as he watched the doctors working to save the person in the bed. About to turn back around to see who it was in the bed, Dean heard a familiar sounding voice, and stopped short.

"You really don't wanna know who's laying there dying, Dean, trust me." The Dean in the doorway stepped around Sam and entered the room. "Nothin' good will come of knowing. Better to leave things just as they are." He came to stand in front of Dean, and then glanced over Dean's shoulder at the person in the bed. "All you really need to know is that he didn't die. Really should've died . . . things would've been better if he did, but he lived. An' that's all you need to know."

"You . . . you can see me?" Dean waved his hand in front of the other Dean's face, and his mirrored image rolled his eyes as he chuckled.

"See, I'm kinda your out of body experience . . . so I guess that makes you the out of body, out of body experience, which is really makin' things kinda confusing. Way too many Dean's runnin' around this hospital." Dean's exact double grinned.

"Why don't you want me to see who's in that bed?" Dean asked, wondering if this was some sort of delusion Ellicott had planted in his mind. "Maybe I need to see who's there so it'll jar my memory."

"No, Dean." The other Dean shook his head then glanced back at Sam for a moment before refocusing his attention on Dean. "There are things we need to forget," he tapped at his temple as a pained expression crossed his features, "things that are better left buried or else they'll rip our heart to shreds. We lived through this once, you and me. It nearly killed us the first time around so I'm beggin' ya . . . please, don't make us go through it again."

A tremor of fear coursed the length of Dean's spine as yet another electrical charge surged through him. _Maybe he's right . . . I'm right. Maybe I don't really want to remember what happened. Maybe Ellicott did me a favor by taking away my memories. _

Dean glanced at Sam again, and his heart broke at how young and desperately sad his little brother appeared as he watched for any signs that the person in the hospital bed was going to be all right. _I can't do this to him. I have to remember for Sam. He needs me to remember so I can help him._

"I have to remember. Sam needs me to remember."

"You're really not gettin' any of this," the doublewalker twisted his wrist around and as he did so he slowly closed his hand into a tight fist. With that gesture the room faded away to nothingness, and the two of them were standing in the middle of a dark deserted stretch of highway. "What's up here," he jabbed his index finger at his temple repeatedly, "it's gone. Sam took it. All your guilt, all your pain. It's gone. I'm what's left of you. I feel no guilt. No shame. I'm not hurtin' like hell inside anymore . . . an' I'm not about to let you ruin that for me. I think I've suffered long enough."

"Gonna help Sammy, an' there ain't a damn thing you can do about it."

"What are you gonna do, Dean? You can't stop me," he laughed, "can't make me go away . . . can't kill me. Cause after all, I am you." Dean's twin narrowed his eyes and arched a brow, in much the same fashion as Dean would, but somehow it looked decidedly evil in comparison to any facial gesture Dean would ever make. "I'm the part of you that's been pushed aside for way too long. An' I can guarantee you this," he jabbed his finger into Dean's chest, "I will kill you . . .no, better yet, I'll kill Sam before I let you screw this up for me. So just let it go before I make you do something you'll regret."

"Not gonna let you hurt Sam."

"Don't you mean you're not gonna hurt Sam?" Dean's doppelgänger grinned as they slowly circled, sizing each other up. "Startin' to sound a bit crazy there, Dean. Might just find yourself in the padded room beside your brother's if you aren't careful." The doublewalker tilted his head to the side to look beyond Dean and then with a smirk he peered into Dean's eyes. "Better get out of the way, there's an eighteen-wheeler comin'." he glanced at his watch, then tapped it with his finger. "Should be along any moment now. Seen this play out in my head a million times . . . huh, no, actually I should say I've seen it play out in your head."

"What the hell are you talkin about?" Dean swung around just in time to see headlights heading straight for him. He'd barely managed to get to the edge of the road before the eighteen-wheeler barreled past him.

"Listen, Dean," the doppelgänger held up a hand to silence Dean from asking how he knew a truck was coming. "Shhh . . . any second now," he craned his neck and Dean found himself doing the same.

In the distance, Dean heard tires screeching, metal colliding against metal, glass shattering then utter and complete silence. The acrid scent of smoke wafted through the cool night air, and Dean knew the accident must have happened close by, but as he strained his eyes to peer into the darkness he could see nothing.

"You can't see it cause you don't want to see it," the doublewalker quickly supplied as he came to stand beside Dean. He leaned in and whispered, "It's right there in front of you. . . not more than ten feet away. Let it go, Dean . . . can't you see that Sam did us a favor?"

"Did someone die in that accident?" Dean shivered, a tremor of fear coursing the length of his spine as he began to walk toward the crash site.

"Well, that's kind of a yes and no answer." The doppelgänger followed at a distance, only to stop short and bend down. He picked up a piece of twisted black metal off the ground, and held it up to Dean. "Things got complicated. An' then there was Tessa," he heaved the piece of metal into the grass, stood and wiped his hands on his pajama bottoms, "she had a real soft spot for you."

Dean pivoted all the way around, but didn't see any signs of an accident anywhere. "You're not freakin' making a lick of sense. You say there was an accident, made me think I heard one, but I see nothing. You're just tryin' to mess with my freakin' mind but I'm not gonna let you."

"I'm you remember? I'm not making any sense cause you don't want me to. Deep inside you want things to remain as they are. You want to be me an' you really don't care if it hurts Sam in the process." The doublewalker laughed as he stalked to where Dean was standing, grabbed hold of his arm and swung him around. He snapped his fingers and the eighteen-wheeler materialized out of thin air not more than five feet away from Dean. The front end of the vehicle was smashed in, smoke rising from the engine, but there was no sign anywhere of the other vehicle. "Tell me I'm wrong . . . tell me you want to see the car it crashed into, an' I swear to God, you'll see everything as it happened or you can just let it go." The doublewalker leaned back against what must have been the other vehicle and crossed his arms. "The choice is yours. But if it helps make things easier for ya, Sam is pretty much screwed no matter what you do. He's got a whole little party goin' on up inside his head, an' they ain't about to let him go," he chuckled, "guess you could really say he is the life of the party."

"Need to know." At a sudden crushing pain in his heart, Dean gripped hold of his chest and beneath his hand he felt his shirt dampening. Blood seeped through his fingers as he dropped to his knees, and the more he thought of the victims inside the car, the more blood dripped through his fingers to splatter on the pavement. But no matter how much pain he was in, he needed to know what had happened.

"What's the matter, Dean?" The doublewalker crouched beside him, and grabbed a hold of Dean's hair, yanking his head backward so they were looking squarely into each other's eyes.

"I can make the pain stop. Just say the word. Tell me you don't want to know what happened, an' it'll all be over."

"Said I need to see the car," Dean ground out, and hugged his chest even tighter as more pain ripped though his heart.

"Don't do this," the doppelgänger pleaded as the car began to materialize behind him, "I'm beggin' ya to stop this before it's too late."

Twisted black metal hugged the front bumper of the eighteen-wheeler, its headlights shining off into the field beyond. The driver's side door had been ripped clear off the hinges, and the person behind the wheel looked too tall and lanky to be Dean.

"Sammy . . . ." Dean's breath caught in his throat as he struggle to get to his feet. Tears stung at his eyes as he noticed three people in the car. "D-Dad. No . . . . No," he shook his head emphatically then turned away to face the doublewalker. "You're lying. You have to be lying. This didn't happen . . . it never happened."

That's right, Dean. It never happened," the doppelgänger smiled, "just look at you. You're fine. The Impala's never run any better. An' despite that whole crazy as cracker jacks thing your brother's got going on, Sam couldn't be any healthier."

"What about my Dad? How's my Dad?" Dean swung back to look at his father, and noticed he wasn't moving at all, and fear unlike anything he'd ever felt before gripped a hold of his heart.

"He didn't die in the accident, Dean. No one died here . . . not here."

"What do you mean?" Dean swung back to glare at the doublewalker. "Is he alive?"

The doublewalker shrugged, a smirk settling on his features. "You'll have to figure that one out for yourself, Dean. I've already showed you way more than I had intended, an' your freakin' guilt is startin' to make me feel a bit nauseous."

"Damn it, tell me if he's alive or not."

"No."

"Tell me or I swear to God, I'll . . . . "

"You'll what, Dean? Empty threats really don't scare me." The doublewalker glanced at his watch again and then looked up at Dean. "Think our time together is just about at an end for now."

"Like hell it is." Dean gripped hold of the doublewalker's t-shirt, cocked back his fist and threw a punch, but instead of hitting the doppelgänger, his arm stopped mid-strike. In a flash of brilliant light, the highway along with everything Dean had seen disappeared and he was laying on a bed in a completely white room.

"Mr. Whitaker, you need to calm down," came a voice from off to the right off Dean, and he instantly recognized it as Doctor Warner. "You are at Parkside Medical. Do you remember anything that happened?" the doctor asked in a soft and reassuring tone.

Confusion racked Dean's brain as he looked up from where he was laying and saw a stark white ceiling overhead. He tried to sit up but only made it less than halfway, padded cuffs around his wrists and ankles, effectively stopping any further movement. Dean turned his head to the side and took in his surroundings, taking note of the padded walls, and lack of anything that a person might hurt himself with, and then looked to the doctor. "Why the hell am I locked up in here?"

"You've been here since yesterday." The Doctor leafed through Dean's medical chart, and then smiled at Dean. "You've been admitted as a psychiatric patient."


	4. Chapter 4

_thanks for reading and for the awesome reviews!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Four_

"Eight hundred eighty-seven bottles of beer on the wall . . . eight hundred eighty-seven bottles of beer, crack one open, chug it down, eight hundred eighty-six bottles of beer on the wall . . .Eight hundred eighty-six bottles of beer on the wall . . . eight hundred eighty-six — "

"Enough with the freakin' song," Dean lifted his head off his pillow and glared at the doublewalker who was leaning against the wall with one leg outstretched and the other knee bent with his left arm resting casually on it. "Two hours straight, two freakin' hours. If I wasn't crazy before, I'm seriously heading that way now."

The doublewalker took a sip of the beer he held in his hand, then held it out to Dean. "How about it, Dean, wanna a drink?" A deep grin settled on his face as he lifted the bottle to his lips again and took another swallow. "Naww . . . better not, nothin' worse than a crazy drunk."

"What the hell are you still doin' here? Thought you were gone." Dean twisted his wrists, trying to loosen the padded cuffs to no avail. Straining his muscles, he yanked on the cuffs with all his strength, yet they still held firm.

"Not my fault you're in here." The doublewalker chugged down the rest of his beer, set it down and another one appeared in his hand. He cracked it open, and took another long drink, before adding, "Told ya if you weren't careful you'd end up in a padded room." He shrugged as he glanced around the stark white room. "Guess I was right, huh?"

"Wouldn't be in here if I wasn't talkin' to you."

"Naww . . . think it was when you started answerin' yourself back that got you in trouble. An' punchin' that pretty little nurse in the face," the doppelgänger grimaced, "yeah, well, that just really didn't work in our favor either."

"Meant to hit you . . . me . . . whatever." Dean struggled into a half-sitting position as he continued to glare at the doublewalker.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you have anger management issues," the doublewalker said as he got to his feet and came to sit on the bed beside Dean. "Probably why we drink a lot."

"Don't drink a lot."

"Sure you do," he held the bottle up to Dean's lips and tilted it so Dean could take a drink. When Dean was done, the doppelgänger chugged down the rest of the liquid and threw the bottle at the wall. "Remember the first time we ever got rip-roarin' drunk."

Dean pursed his lips, and gave a quick shake of his head, not liking the direction the conversation was heading. "No."

"Sure you do."

Eyes the exact same shade as Dean's looked intently into his own, and Dean could see all the pain hidden well beneath the surface. From what Dean saw in the doublewalker's eyes he knew that it didn't want to remember either, but was doing it just to punish Dean.

"Said I don't remember."

"W-we were eleven," the doublewalker's voice hitched in his throat as a frown overshadowed his previous smile. "Wonder exactly how many eleven-year-olds get drunk, Dean. Probably not too many, I'll bet."

"Wasn't that young." Dean's hands clenched into tight fists as a faded image of his father coming home seriously injured from a hunt came to mind. "Had to have been older than that."

"Daddy injured, Sammy buggin' the crap out of ya, an' a twelve pack jus' beggin' to be drank. Wicked combination, don't ya think?"

"There was an old tree fort behind the motel we were stayin' at," Dean mumbled as the unwant memory came into focus in his mind. "The wood was gray and splintered. The door was just an' old piece of plywood, fell off when I opened it."

"Knew you remembered." With a wave of the doppelgänger's hand they were in the tree fort Dean remembered from his childhood. The wood was even more aged and rickety than Dean had recalled, and the fort itself seemed much lower to the ground. A young boy with short scruffy hair and sad green eyes cracked open a beer, stared at it for a moment, and then cautiously took a sip. Gagging repeatedly, he tried to swallow it down, but ended up spitting the beer out on the floor. With trembling hands, the boy held the drink up to his lips again, tilted back his head, and chugged it down.

"That was our first in a long line of drinks, Dean. Our only means of escape . . . well, that is until Dad gave us the Impala." The doublewalker snapped his fingers and the tree fort faded away and they were in a motel room. John lay deathly still on a bed, a wide bandage covering his forehead, his arm in a sling and his ribs tightly bandaged. Even from where Dean was standing by the door, he could see the sheen of sweat covering his father's body, and remembered how terrified he'd been at the time that his Dad was going to die and it would be all his fault.

"Wouldn't let me call for help. Said it would raise too many questions, an' I was old enough to handle it." Dean swallowed hard as he watched the younger version of himself trying his damnedest to take care of all his father's injuries, and at the same time trying to keep Sam occupied. "Was only eleven . . . why the hell was it my job to take care of him."

"Even back then we always were lookin' out for everyone but ourselves. Why the hell was it our job to take care of everyone? We were only eleven for God sake. When's enough, enough, Dean? We deserve a chance an' Sam gave it to us. It's his turn to carry some of the guilt, we've done it long enough."

With one last look around, Dean lowered his head, and muttered, "Take me back to the hospital. Don't need to see anymore."

"So you'll stop trying to remember?" the doublewalker asked, an expression of hope crossing his features. "Don't need to remember, Dean. We're better this way."

"Didn't say that . . . need to get back to the hospital so I can figure out a way to get Sammy out of there."

"Alright, Dean," the doppelgänger gave a curt nod, "see we're gonna have to do this the hard way."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"See, unlike you, I can get to Sam . . . can get inside his head," he tapped at his temple, "really screw his mind all to hell. An' believe me when I'm finished with him there won't be anything left worth salvaging." With that, the doublewalker disappeared before Dean had a chance to argue.

The vision of the past melted away and Dean found himself in the hospital bed once more. A quick glance around the room told him that he was alone, and he let out a slew of curse words under his breath. Dean's thoughts turned swiftly to Sam, all alone and unprotected from the doublewalker, and fought all the harder against the padded cuffs around his wrists and ankles.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Sam's eyelids fluttered open at the sound of his brother's voice, and he glanced around the hospital room in search for Dean. At first he didn't see his older brother, and thought he'd only imagined hearing Dean's voice, but after a moment, his brother came into focus. Stretched out on the bed in the far corner of the room, Dean sat with legs causally crossed, his head cradled between laced fingers.

Although the straightjacket Sam wore limited his movements, he somehow managed to shift into a more comfortable position. For several minutes he sat on the floor, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, and also trying to remember why he was wearing a straightjacket. His attempts were quickly thwarted as the voices inside his head grew so loud he couldn't hold onto a single solid thought for more than a mere second before it was lost to him.

"D-Dean," Sam called out, wondering why his brother hadn't even tried to help him out of the restraints that were holding him prisoner.

"Fought your way out for a moment, huh, Sammy?" Dean sat and hung his feet over the side of the bed. "Gettin' a helluva a lot harder, isn't it?" He stood and came to sit beside Sam.

"Help me, Dean . . . make 'em stop . . . please, j-jus' make 'em stop," Sam begged as he uselessly fought against the restraints.

"They're not gonna let you go, little brother . . . ever. You see, Bo, Reeves, Sarah, Molly . . . me . . . an' a whole shit load of others, we like it inside of your head." Tapping his finger at Sam's temple, Dean smirked. "Why don't ya just make things easier on all of us, an' quit fighting it. You're gonna lose. Reeves won't let you win . . . I won't let you win."


	5. Chapter 5

_So, this chapter really didn't want to end...but i think this is as good of place as any to end it...thanks for reading and for the awesome reviews!! they really do make it all worthwhile!! Please let me know what you think!! bambers;)_

Sam sat in the psychiatrist's office, confined in a straightjacket as the little man looked over the youngest Winchester's files. His gaze kept straying to Dean, who had at first been wandering around the room but who was now standing directly behind the doctor. Dean rested his arm against the doctor's shoulder, leaned over and began studying Sam's chart as well. "Thinks you're certifiable, Sammy." Dean chuckled as he glanced up at Sam. He reached over the balding man's shoulder and trailed his finger down the page, but the doctor didn't even seem to notice. "You're so gonna be locked away."

"Shut the hell up, Dean," Sam hissed through clenched teeth.

"Excuse me," the doctor glanced at Sam, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Was talkin' to my brother."

The older man looked around the room and then his steady gaze returned to Sam once more. "There's no one here besides us, Sam."

"What are you freakin' blind?" Sam uttered incredulously. "He's right freakin' behind you."

The doctor glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at Sam again and shook his head. "It's just you and me here, Sam."

"Careful, Sammy," Dean warned, a mirthless grin slipping across his features. "Startin' to look full-on crazy here. They'll be fittin' you for a straightjacket soon," he gestured toward Sam, and laughed, "oops . . . too late. They already did."

"So not funny, Dean." Sam wrestled against the confines of the straightjacket, wanting nothing more at the moment than to break free and throttle his brother.

"Tell me about your brother, Mr Whitaker," the doctor said as he picked up a pencil to take notes. "Do you get along?" he scrawled down a few notes before Sam even had a chance to open his mouth to speak.

"Wanna know what he wrote, dude?" Dean leaned over the psychiatrist's shoulder again, and smirked. "Really bad penmanship, but I can clearly make out the word delusional. They're so gonna lock you away forever."

"Right now, Doctor Carter, I'd have to say he's a real a pain in my ass," Sam replied, trying his best to ignore his brother.

"Awww . . . Sammy, that really hurts." Dean came to stand directly behind Sam, and leaned in to whisper, "Whatever happened to you got my back an' I got yours?"

"Not really feelin' like you got my back here at the moment, dude." Sam shifted in his seat to move as far away from Dean as he possibly could without falling out of the chair.

"So not true, dude," Dean jabbed two fingers at the side of Sam's head, "who the hell do think is keepin' all the voices at bay for the moment? Cause it certainly isn't you."

Sam thought about it for a moment and realized Dean was right, the voices had quieted inside his head. He'd been so focused on his brother since Dean had showed up in his hospital room that he hadn't realized it until this very moment. He opened his mouth to ask Dean where they had gone to, when the Doctor cut in.

"I'm trying to be as helpful as I can, Mr. Whitaker," Doctor Carter tried to reassure, apparently thinking the comment was meant for him. "Sometimes it just really helps to talk out your problems, so tell me about your brother."

"This guy's great," Dean chuckled as he gestured toward the doctor, "he really believes he can make a difference with all his psychobabble bullshit." He strode to the desk, leaned against it, and casually crossed his legs and folded his arms. "Go ahead, Sammy, tell him all your deepest, darkest secrets. Tell him about ol' Yellow-Eyes . . . tell him how evil has plans for you. He can help," Dean hitched a thumb over his shoulder toward the plaque on the wall, "he has a degree an' everything."

"How are you keeping the voices away, Dean?" Sam asked, ignoring the doctor and Dean's comments.

"So you think your brother keeps the voices away?" Doctor Carter raised a quizzical brow, and then hastily scribbled something down in his journal. "Why would you think that?"

"Sorta like Friday Night Smackdown, little brother. Kick enough asses an' they crown you king." Dean shrugged, the smirk never leaving his face. "Only problem is, there's always someone who's gonna challenge you for the title."

"What about me?"

"Ha . . . you?" Dean burst out laughing. "You can't even beat Molly. An' if you can't beat her, there's no way you could ever hope to go up against Reeves."

"Molly?" Sam quirked a brow in total confusion.

"Would you like to talk about Molly?" the doctor asked, quickly shuffling through his papers until he found the one he was looking for.

"I don't even know who the hell Molly is," Sam's voice raised an octave in anger and frustration. "So why the hell would I want to talk about her."

"Sure you do, Sammy," Dean chided, "tight little body, sexy as all hell, an' all kinds of crazy."

"Don't know who the hell she is, Dean. So jus' shut the hell up."

"Would you like to know who she is, Mr. Whitaker?" Doctor Carter glanced up from his paperwork to look at Sam, waiting for an answer.

"How do I get rid of her, Dean?" Sam asked, once again completely ignoring the doctor. Leaning forward in his seat, Sam looked his brother directly in the eyes. "Please, just tell me how to get rid of her."

Dean was silent for a moment as he apparently mulled over what Sam said, then gave a curt shake of his head. "Why the hell would I want to help you, Sammy? With each one gone you become a little stronger, an' I can't have that."

Sam stared at Dean for a moment or two longer as his older brother's words sunk in fully. The cold hard glint in his brother's green eyes, made it very clear to Sam that Dean didn't care what happened to him. Dean wanted him to look crazy, wanted him to be locked up in a padded cell. But what Sam didn't understand was why.

"Why won't you help me?"

"I'm really trying to, Mr. Whitaker," the doctor responded, his voice filled with compassion.

"Not talkin' to you, so why don't you just shut the hell up," Sam blurted out before he could manage to stop himself. "Was talkin' to my brother," he quickly amended, and realized his mistake when the doctor scribbled something more down on his notepad. "I'm not crazy, Doc, I'm really not."

"Huh," Dean leaned sideways, glanced at the notepad, then looked back to Sam, "seems as if you are, little brother. Says so, right here," he tapped his finger on what the doctor had just written down.

"Look, Doc," Sam wriggled back and forth in his chair, starting to feel more than just a little uncomfortable with his arms secured tightly to his chest by the straightjacket, "I'm sure you've heard this a ton of times, but I'm really not crazy. Don't know why the hell you can't see him, but my brother is leaning up right against your desk."

"I'm sure you'd like to believe he is there," Doctor Carter looked up from his paperwork, smiled sympathetically at Sam and then returned to writing more notes. "As you said, he makes the voices go away, kind of like a shelter in a storm, so maybe that's why only you can see him."

"Oh, he's good, Sammy," Dean chuckled, "shelter in a storm . . . is that what I am? Always protecting you, taking the brunt of the pain an' guilt for ya?"

"Never asked you to, Dean," Sam argued, "you jus' never would let me . . . I've tried . . . you know what, whatever," Sam would've thrown up is hands in frustration if he could only yank them free of the bindings, so instead he had to settle for angrily tapping the heels of his feet against the tiled floor. "You win, dude. You've got the whole guilt thing all locked up . . . no one else has ever felt as much of it as you have . . . an' no one else has ever suffered as much as you. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Do you feel guilty about something, Sam," the doctor asked, suddenly very interested in what Sam had to say.

"What do you mean?" Sam shrugged, not liking where the conversation was heading. "Felt guilty about a lot of things in my life."

"Sure you have, little brother," Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Well," Doctor Carter flipped through his pages of notes, "all your alter-egos seem to have similar underlying guilt issues. Maybe they are manifesting themselves as a way of trying to deal with your guilt." Leaning over his desk, the doctor clasped his fingers together, and look intently at Sam. "Perhaps by working through this guilt we can establish a new foundation on which you can build to and eventually return to a normal life."

"Can you tell me one thing, Doc?" Sam asked and waited until the older man nodded to continue, "these voices . . . these personalities, I seem to be having . . . anything at all unusual about them? Anything that just doesn't seem to fit in with the normal craziness of being crazy?"

"Well, there was a few things that were kind of unusual," the doctor reluctantly admitted. "For some reason, all your alter-egos believe it's the year 1963 and they're patients of the Roosevelt Asylum."

"Huh, an' that doesn't strike you as odd?" Sam stated confidently, feeling as if he was finally getting somewhere with the doctor.

"People can manifest all kinds of delusions to cope with their mental problems, Sam, you have to understand this."

"I wasn't even freakin' born in 1963, for Christ's sake." Sam pushed to his feet, and began stalking back and forth, furious that the doctor wouldn't even consider the possibility that he wasn't insane. "Did you even bother to check the records of patients at Roosevelt? Did you ever stop to think that maybe . . . just maybe they might've been real people, an' I'm not nuts?"

"Damn, Sammy, so not a good argument for your sanity," Dean laughed, "I swear, I'm not nuts, I'm just channeling a bunch of dead people," he mocked, trying to imitate Sam's voice. "Why don't you just tell him you were hunting ghosts at Roosevelt an' they all decided to jumped inside your head, I'm sure that'll go over really well."

Now seething with anger, Sam swung back to glare at his brother. "Did it for you, Dean . . . for you! I'm in here now cause of you. Locked up cause of you . . . so you can take all your guilt bullshit, an' get the hell out of here. Cause I'm really freakin' tired of hearing it."

"Sammy . . . ." Dean began twitching convulsively, eyes closing and opening rapidly as he jerked away from the desk. "Don't p-push me back inside . . . . you won't like it . . . Reeves . . . he's . . . ."

"He's what, Dean?" Sam asked, completely forgetting about his anger and that the doctor was in the room with them.

"Murderer," Dean jerked forward again, shaking uncontrollably. "No g-guilt . . . no escape." Blood trickled down from Dean's lips as a purplish bruise appeared on his right cheek. Sam rushed forward and caught his brother before he fell to the floor. Together, they both sank to their knees. "N-need me . . . can fight him," Dean lightly tapped the side of Sam's temple with trembling fingers, "up here . . . can make th-them all go away."

"How, Dean?" Sam asked, fighting against the strange buzzing sound that was now filling his ears. Slowly the nosie changed until Sam heard a low murmuring of voices. "How do I stop them, Dean?" Sam begged for an answer as the voices grew to a fevered pitch.

"Mr. Whitaker?" Doctor Carter peered over the top of the desk, and then rushed around it, and knelt beside Sam. "Sam, you need to let me help you," he gently persuaded as Sam pushed away from him.

"N-not gonna tell ya," Dean managed to choke out, before squeezing his eyes shut, and arching and twisting snakelike in Sam's lap.

"Guhh . . . please . . . ." Sam cried out, and feeling as if there was an explosion of lights and sounds behind his eyes, he squinched them tightly closed. "Beggin' ya, D-Dea . . . ."

Inside Sam's mind he could faintly hear Dean's voice, trying desperately to shout above the din, but it was soon lost as another darker voice emerged once more. A tremor of fear coursed through Sam's body as the voice fought for and gained control, silencing all the other voices. When Sam finally reopened his eyes, he pushed further away from the doctor as a smirk lit across his features.

"Sam?" the doctor asked, furrowing his brows in concern and question. "Mr. Whitaker?"

"Reeves," Sam stated, his tone devoid of any emotion. "An' if I were you, I'd be more than a little damn worried right about now," and saying that, Sam's foot shot out, kicking the smaller man squarely in the stomach.

Doctor Carter flew backward, and landed sprawled out on the ground. Using his elbow as leverage, Sam pushed off from the ground and scrambled to his feet. With a pure demented look of evil in his eyes, he stalked toward the older man. Lifting his foot, he brought it down hard against the man's chest. A sardonic laugh escaped him as he knelt, and ground his knee into the whimpering man's ribcage.

"You know," Sam lowered his head slightly so he was looking the doctor in the eyes, "could kill you right now . . . crush your windpipe, but I'm not gonna." He smiled, then laughed heartily. "Wanna know why?" When the terrified man could do nothing more than give a slight nod of his head, Sam continued, "You and your talk of guilt, makes Dean weaker which in turn makes Sam weaker, an' the way I figure it, soon there'll just be me inside his head."

"Wha . . . what are you t-talking about?" the doctor managed to gasp out, tear-filled eyes narrowing as he tried to understand.

"They all feel guilt . . . all of them. But not me," Sam shook his head, "not me," he reiterated to stress the point he was trying to make. "Think Ellicott said I was incapable of feeling the emotion. But Dean's strong, even in his anger, he anchors little Sammy."

"Ellicott?"

"Doctor Ellicott. 1963. Roosevelt Asylum, ring any bells?" Sam asked, smirking at the man. "There was a riot, people died . . . I died, but for some damn reason I didn't go away. Apparently Hell didn't want me yet. Think I got work left to do."

"An' what would that work be," the doctor asked, and Sam could tell he was mentally taking notes to try and diagnose what sort of mental illness he was dealing with.

"You believe in demons, Satan, an' all that bullshit, Doc?"

"I believe a lot of people believe in that kind of thing," Doctor Carter replied, and breathed a little easier when Sam pushed away from him, and stood to stalk back and forth.

"Right, the Devil made me do it thing, is that what you mean?"

Doctor Carter slowly got to his feet, and holding his stomach, he lumbered back to his desk, and slumped down in his seat. "Sometimes people like to manifested demons in which they can allow to take the blame for their actions. It helps to alleviate the guilt, if the person doesn't feel they have any control over their own actions."

"But what if the Devil really is making me do it?" Sam questioned, quirking a brow as he turned and smiled at the doctor. "What if he has plans for me, an' that's why I'm still around?"

"So what does this devil want you to do?"

"He talks to me, you know," Sam uttered, ignoring the doctor's question, "tell me things . . . things about Sam . . . about Dean."

"What does the devil want you to do?" Doctor asked again, his voice raising slightly, and Sam noted a tremor of fear in the older man's tone.

"Seems as if he's tired of Dean. That damn Winchester is always in his face, almost killed him once, but Daddy Winchester came to the rescue." He chuckled manically, and laughed even harder when the pencil the doctor was holding tightly in his grip snapped in half. "Sold his soul you know, sold it for Dean."

"Winchester, I'm not following?" The doctor grabbed another pencil, and quickly began scrawling down notes. "Who's the Winchesters?"

"Not very quick on the uptake are ya, Doc?" Sam halted in his paces and stared at the doctor. "Sam and Dean Winchester. That's their real names." He stalked to the desk, and took a seat on the edge of it. "An' get this, they're demon hunters." Leaning over, he glanced at what the doctor was writing, and chuckled. "Don't really care if you believe it or not. They're the real thing. Hunt those little creepy things that allow people like yourself to sleep better at night, all safe an' warm in your bed."

"So, they hunted you?" the Doctor asked perceptively.

"No, Ellicott, sonuvabitch was making lab rats out of his patients."

"An' you were one of them?" The doctor appeared very intrigued, but whether he actually believed what Sam was saying or not, Sam couldn't tell.

"There weren't a lot of us who didn't suffer some sort of torture at his hands," Sam said evasively, not about to answer one way or another if he'd actually been operated on. "But as I was sayin', they're hunters. An' now it's my job to hunt him."

"Hunt who?"

Sam stood, and headed for the door, calling back over his shoulder. "Think our time is up for this session."


	6. Chapter 6

so, sorry about the long delay, but i had written another chapter of this that i just wasn't thrilled with so i just couldn't bring myself to post it...thanks again for reading and for all the great reviews!! Bambers;)

_Chpter Six_

A nagging feeling welled in the pit of Doctor Jason Carter's stomach as he sat at his desk leafing through Sam's files. The younger man certainly seemed to fit the text book definition of certifiably insane. Sam had been irrational, delusional, and even shackled in a straightjacket he had been extremely dangerous. Yet for all the evidence he had witnessed with his own eyes, the doctor was still uncertain.

His fingertip trailed down one of the pages and came to rest on the name Ellicott. As he tapped his finger nervously on the name, he recalled an article he had once read about the Roosevelt Asylum. Not remembering all the details of the story, Doctor Carter turned to his computer and typed in Roosevelt Asylum along with Ellicott's name, and after a few seconds several sites came up on the screen.

The first article he clicked on brought up accounts of a riot that had occurred back in 1964. Although the details of what had happened were vague, the doctor learned that Ellicott had apparently died during the siege. Although his body had never been recovered, the police speculated that the psychiatric inmates had somehow managed to conceal or destroy the man's remains.

As Jason read further, he discovered that several patients had also died during the riot, and one name in particular had his heart racing a little bit faster. Harvey Reeves. He skimmed over the rest of the article until another name nearly leapt off the page at him. Bo Raskins.

"Damn it, he can't be right." He scratched his head as he thought back to what Sam had said about his alter-egos being real people at one time. "There's just no way it's possible."

Doctor Carter clicked on the next link and was more than just a little surprised to find that it was a paranormal website. Page after page was filled with firsthand accounts of people who had visited the asylum and had some sort of paranormal experience. Although a lot of them seemed very far fetched, the last two entries on the bottom of the fourth page caught his attention. His mouth dropped wide open as he reread the first of the two entries again.

__

Katkat2490: My stupid boyfriend thought it would be so cool to visit the Roosevelt Asylum, but once inside, we somehow got separated. I kept hearing strange noises and I couldn't find him anywhere. I was so freakin' scared that I hid behind something in this one really creepy room. Think it might have been an overturned table, but I'm not really even sure what it was anymore. Then these two guys appeared out of nowhere. They said their names were Sam and Dean an' that they hunted ghosts. I know that sounds buckets of crazy, but believe me, they were the real deal.

While walking down one of the hallways, something grabbed hold of my arm and dragged me into one of the rooms. The door slammed shut with Dean on the other side, and I came face to face with the most terrifying thing I've ever seen in my entire life. This ghost with a freakin' messed up face an' long curly black hair was right beside me, an' Sam yelled to me to listen to what it had to say an' it would let me go. Right, like no way in hell did I want to hear what this butt ugly thing had to say, but Sam was right. The ghost whispered the number '137'.

Dean and Sam figured it was a room number, and as Sam took Gavin and I back to the entrance, Dean went to find the room. When we reached the front entrance, we found out that whatever was inside the stupid freakin' place didn't want us to leave. Sam told us that whatever evil thing was lurking inside the asylum, it didn't want us to go. Yeah, figured that one out myself. While we were waiting for Dean to return, Sam got a phone call from him. Sam headed off to the boiler room to help his brother, leaving me with a shotgun full of rock salt. Apparently, it is the weapon of choice when hunting ghosts . . . who knew.

Anyhow, not long after, Dean returned and was surprised as all hell not to find Sam there with us. Course Gavin an' I were like, 'duh, you called and told him to meet you in the boiler room'. Another thing I didn't know about ghosts was that they apparently can make long distant phone calls from the great beyond.

__

Dean went looking for Sam, and after what seemed like forever, Gavin an' I heard gunfire. Gavin now was being all macho like he wanted to go an' help out. Funny how he never made it more than a few steps before turning back to stand behind the girl with a gun. That's right, Gavin can't shoot a gun to save his life, so I pretty much was protecting him.

I clearly remember smelling something awful and then saw black smoke filter up through the vents. _We heard the doors unlock by themselves, and not long after that,_ _Sam and Dean returned from the boiler room._ _Sam looked as if something had punched him in the face, and Dean was clutching a hold of his chest and was kind of having a hard time breathing. I asked them if they were alright, and both said they were fine. Just like a guy, never wanting to admit he's hurt . . .Gavin could take some lessons from them. ___

Anyhow, they walked us outside, and we thanked them for everything they did for us. I know most people are gonna believe I am crazy for writing this, but it really did happen. The Roosevelt Asylum is haunted, and you'll never catch me going back inside there again . . . .

Doctor Carter quickly skimmed through Gavin's account of the same ghostly experience again. Although Gavin had tried to make himself look a lot braver than Katkat had, the story they had told was basically the same.

As a doctor, Jason had been trained to look beyond the irrational delusions of his patients to determine the underlying cause of their mental illness. However, this was the first time he had been confronted with the possibility that one of his patients was dealing with something that was well out of range of his capabilities.

Of course he knew he couldn't go to his boss with his doubts about Sam's case. Although he considered Doctor Warner a friend of sorts, Jason knew his older colleague was a stickler for the facts each individual case presented. From Sam's files, even Jason would have to conclude that the younger man was riding the proverbial crazy train, and had no doubt that Doctor Warner would want him committed.

Jason also knew he was running out of time in making his mental assessment for Sam. By law he only had seventy-two hours in which to determine if he had enough evidence to go to court and have Sam legally committed against his own will. His other concern was that if he didn't commit Sam to the psychiatric ward of Parkside Medical, the younger man would end up in prison. Two of the men that Sam had attacked on his first day in the hospital had both pressed charges against him for assault. If Jason declared him legally sane, Sam would go to prison.

The best Jason could figure, he only had a few options left open to him if he didn't have the younger man committed. First, however, he needed to talk to the only two people who might be able to shed some light on why Sam's alter-egos all believed they were at the Roosevelt Asylum. Doctor Carter highly doubted Sam's brother Dean would be any help at all as he was also undergoing mental assessment at the moment, but was unwilling to completely rule out speaking to him. The other person was a patient that had been admitted on the same night that Sam had been brought into the hospital. With that thought in mind, Jason pushed his chair back from the desk, and stood to go and talk to Bobby Singer.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Doctor Carter stood at the doorway of Bobby's hospital room, uncertain if he really wanted to risk his job to find out if his suspicions about Sam were correct. Parkside Medical took the oath of doctor/patient confidentiality very seriously, and allowed for no leeway in the rules. If Doctor Warner found out Jason was speaking to Bobby about Sam's case, there was no doubt in his mind that he would be let go from his job. Yet, regardless of his doubts, Jason had to admit that he was more than just a little intrigued at the possibility that what Sam had said to him was true.

Pushing the door open, Doctor Carter entered the room, and unconsciously winced when he saw all the bruises and welts on the older man's face. From Bobby's medical file, he had learned the older man had been in a car accident, but as Sam and Dean had brought him into the hospital, Jason was skeptical as to the truth of that story.

Through narrowed, swollen eyelids, Bobby eyed Jason as he strode to the bed, and took a seat beside it. Jason flipped open Sam's file and yanked a pencil out of his coat pocket. Clearing his suddenly dry throat, he said, "Hello, my name is Doctor Jason Carter, an' I'm a psychiatrist here at Parkside Medical."

"Jus' hit my head, Doc, didn't lose my mind," Bobby smirked, and then grimaced at the subtle movement.

"Look," Jason pressed onward before he lost his nerve, "I wanted to speak with you about a patient of mine. Sam Winchester. I know he brought you in here." From the sudden closed-off expression on Bobby's face, Jason quickly determined that it wasn't going to be easy getting any information out of the older man unless he changed tactics. "If you aren't going to be straight with me in regards to Sam, I'm afraid I'll have no other alternative than to have him declared legally insane." Jason stood, turned his back on Bobby and walk toward the door, wanting Bobby to believe he would leave if he didn't get the answers he wanted.

"Wait," Bobby called out just as Jason grabbed for the door handle. "What do ya mean, have him declared legally insane? I've known Sam practically his entire life, an' he's about the sanest person I know."

Jason hesitated in turning back around just long enough to assure that Bobby would think he didn't believe him. "So your definition of sane must include having at least four other alter-egos fighting for control over his mind. Cause here, at this hospital, we like to call it a psychosis of the mind."

Doctor Carter made his way back to the chair beside the bed, and took a seat. Sure now that he had Bobby's full attention, he reopened Sam's file, and leafed through the pages. "I want you to understand something before we even begin here." He paused and glanced up at Bobby through lowered lashes. "By my sharing Sam's files with you, I am violating Doctor/Patient confidentiality. I could lose my job for this if our conversation goes any further beyond this room."

"Then why are ya even here?" Bobby quirked a brow, now seemingly intrigued by what Jason had just admitted.

"I usually like to consider myself a man who calls a spade a spade, but from time to time, even I begin to question the possibilities of certain things."

"What kinda things?" Bobby pressed his palms against the mattress, and pushed himself up a little bit straighter in his bed.

"When I was ten years old, my parents rented this cottage by the lake," Jason replied, suddenly feeling awkward at having to dredge up a memory he had done his best to forget. "It was real late one night, an' something woke me out of a sound sleep. I got out of bed, an' headed outside an' toward the water, realizing that it sounded like a little girl laughing." Jason drew in a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. His hands trembled as he wondered if Bobby would think he was crazy for what he had to say next, but now that he had begun to recount the tale, he needed to finish it. "The moon was full that night. I mean the kind of full that you can see everything clearly, ya know?"

"Yeah," Bobby said with a subtle nod.

"An' I saw her playing in the water. She had long dark hair." His fingers trailed down the length of his own hair as he recalled the memory of her face. "An' she was pale . . . even by the moonlight I could tell how pale she was. She dipped her hand into the water, splashing it all around herself, and then giggled she as motioned for me to come an' join her."

"An' you did," Bobby supplied when Jason fell silent, and he nodded in response.

"I didn't see anythin wrong with it. Figured my parents would never have to know, but then she changed. Sh-she was so strong . . . I mean, really strong. An' she dragged me down under the water, an' I couldn't breathe. Thought I was gonna die, but then I felt someone pulling me back out of the water. It was this guy I'd never seen before. He dragged me back to shore, then went after her. I was so scared that I never even waited to see if he made it out of the water okay. I just ran back into the cottage, an' wouldn't come out of house for the rest of the time we were there."

After a very long pause, in which Bobby eyed Jason the entire time, the older man finally asked, "So why are you tellin' me all this?"

"Cause I wanna know if you think the creature that dragged me under the water that night is the same kind of thing that's attacking Sam's mind now? An' if it is, maybe I can help."

"An' if I told you were probably dreamin' that night, an' things like that don't really exist, what would that mean for Sam?"

"It would probably mean he'd be spending an awfully long time here." Jason tapped nervously on his file folder under Bobby's close scrutiny. "But I have a strange feeling that I'm right. An' if I am then I need your help now before it's too late to get Sam and Dean out of here before their both committed."

"Dean?" Bobby's demeanor abruptly changed, and Jason clearly saw the look of fear in his eyes. "Why's he in here?"

"I'm not his doctor, but from what I've gathered he's dealing with his own psychoses. So why don't ya jus' tell me if I'm right, so we can figure out a way to get them out of here."

After much hesitation, Bobby finally heaved a weary groan. "What you saw that night was probably the vengeful spirit of a little girl who drowned in the lake. Although there are other possibilities, that one seems the most likely. The man who went after her was probably a hunter."

"Like Sam an' Dean?" Jason asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Yeah, like Sam an' Dean."

"An' the Roosevelt Asylum? They were there, weren't they? An' somethin' happened to them?"

"Not really sure what happened," Bobby conceded. "Guess it all started several months ago when they went there to get rid of this vengeful spirit who had somehow made this cop shoot his own wife an' then turn the gun on himself."

Jason scrubbed his hand across his face as he recalled reading about the murder/suicide in the paper. "An' they got rid of this ghost?" he said, his thoughts turning to what Katkat had written about the incident on the paranormal website. "But something went wrong?"

"Yeah, they found Ellicott's body stuffed in a cabinet in the basement. Dean salted an' burned his remains, an' they left. Only thing was, Dean started having some sort of memory loss tha' got progressively worse as the months went on."

"An' when did Sam start to figure this all out?" Jason uttered, thoroughly engrossed in what Bobby was telling him.

"Guess Dean was keepin' these journals as a way of remembering things. But it was gettin' so bad that he had to write down Sam's description to remind himself that he could trust him."

Jason's brows pulled together, not understanding how any of this related to what was happening to Sam. "So if Sam was fine after his visit to Roosevelt what changed things?"

"Sam went back to Roosevelt to try an' figure things out. He was certain that something happened there, but wasn't sure exactly what it was. While he was there, Dean totally lost it an' went after Sam."

"So that explains all the bruises on both boys . . . an' I suspect on you as well," Jason commented, although he really didn't expect Bobby to respond. "So Dean shows up at Roosevelt, they fight it out, but it still doesn't explain why Sam is suffering from a psychotic break from reality."

"While Sam was in Ellicott's office, he found a torn piece of paper with their father's handwriting on it. It said 'your mind tricked you to feel the pain'." Bobby heaved another sigh, his eyelids growing heavy from the sedatives the doctors had given him for the pain. "It was the name of a book written by one of Ellicott's so-called patients."

"An' what did this book have to do with what happened at Roosevelt?"

"I dunno how exactly it worked, but Sam figured that if he took the blame for all the guilt that was eating his brother up inside, it would somehow bring Dean back. So he placed his hands on the sides of Dean's face an' jus' started talkin'. He took the blame for everything bad that had ever happened to them. An' then Sam's hands jus' started glowin' this intense shade of blue. An' Dean kept tellin' him to stop."

"So," Jason narrowed his eyes in confusion, "Sam somehow took on Dean's guilt? That wouldn't explain all the other alternate identities Sam is suffering from now though."

"When Dean finally came around, Sam collapsed. Dean was so angry, said I should've stopped him . . . an' that it wasn't only Dean's guilt he took on. My best guess is that the spirits who still were trapped inside of the asylum somehow dumped off their guilt on Dean so they could move on. So when Sam took all Dean's guilt he took theirs as well."

"Which would explain the multiple personalities," Jason surmised, completely dumbstruck by the story Bobby had just recounted.

"Yeah, when Sam finally woke up, he was actin' kinda strange. Jus' got up an' headed for the door even though Dean was callin' to him. Then before leavin' he said his name wasn't Sam, but Bo Raskins."

"Who had died in the 1964 riot at Roosevelt."

"Right."

Jason leaned back in his seat, his head dropping backward onto his shoulders as he mulled over everything he had heard. After a very long pause, he finally looked back to Bobby. "From everything I've learned from Sam, an' now from you as well, this whole thing centers around guilt. Dean's guilt. Bo's guilt. Molly's guilt . . . an' whoever else is trapped inside Sam's mind. From a psychiatrist's standpoint, I believe we have to somehow relieve all these other identities of their guilt so they can be put to rest once an' for all."

"An' how are we supposed to do that?"

"Well, I would say dealing with Dean's guilt would be the easiest as he's still alive. So maybe we should start there an' work our way through the rest afterward."

"Huh, you don't know Dean at all. The boy practically bathes in guilt, an' he's definitely not gonna let go of it that easily."

"Maybe so, but we have to try." Jason hesitated again, his mind wandering back to the conversation he had with Sam when he had taken on Reeve's identity. Reeve's had said he felt no guilt for the things he'd done. If that was true, Jason worried that there would be no way to get rid of him. But while Sam was in Jason's office, the youngest Winchester had been certain that Dean was there most of the time. Jason recalled now that what had seemed like delusions of Dean at the time, were Sam's most lucid moments. Maybe Dean or the image of Dean was somehow sheltering Sam from the torment of the other voices inside his head. If they tried to take away Dean's guilt first, Jason feared that it would leave Sam at the mercy of the things that had taken over his mind. With that in mind, he realized that he just wasn't willing to risk doing any more damage to Sam's weakened psyche.

"Okay, here's what we're gonna do," Jason said determinedly, "first we figure out a way to get them out of here, an' then systematically go after each of the weaker identities until Sam is strong enough to push the rest of them out on his own."

"That's all well an' good," Bobby frowned, seeing the very real flaw in Jason's plan, "But I'm injured, a' you're a doctor here. How the hell are we supposed to get them out of here without anyone noticing?"

"I dunno," Jason admitted with a shrug, "haven't figured that part out yet. But I like to consider myself a pretty smart guy, so I'm sure I can figure something out."

"Yeah, can jus' see how well this is gonna work out." Bobby groaned.

_XxXxXxXxXxXxX_

Hey, I am auctioning off a story for a very good cause to help a fellow writer, so if you get a chance, take a look!! If you bid and win, i'll write any kind of story your heart desires!! Bambers;)

"We're running a Supernatural fanfic auction for the next two weeks (June 28 - July 12) benefiting a fellow writer, publisher, and friend who is in need of a wheelchair. Twenty-two writers (and one vidder!) have generously offered their talents and time to this endeavor, and every penny goes to the fund. The auction can be found at , under Miscellaneous-General, and registering to bid is fast and free. Donations are also gratefully accepted. For questions or to make a donation, please contact me at . I hope you'll come check it out and not only have some fun bidding on some great writers, but also help us raise money for a good cause!"  
K Hanna Korossy


	7. Chapter 7

so, sorry about the long delay, my dang computer fried and needless to say it was a really long time before i got most of the kinks worked out...just trying to get all my stories back now which has been a real pain, but I am slowly finding them all...but anywho...thanks again for reading and for all the great reviews!! Bambers;)

_Chapter Seven_

"So, Dean, would you say that you and your brother Sam had a normal childhood?" Doctor Warner asked as he glanced over the file on his desk, then without lifting his head, glanced up at him through lowered lashes.

"I can honestly say that we did a lot of really interesting things when we were kids." Dean smirked, failing to mention that most of those things involved hunting and killing every kind of creature imaginable. "Traveled a lot, did some hunting . . . my Dad always loved to hunt, an' wanted to make sure we knew how to handle a gun properly."

"That's a bit of a stretch, Dean," Dean's doublewalker said with a laugh as he leaned against the windowsill and causally crossed his arms. "Why don't you tell him exactly what you an' Dad like to hunt. I'm sure he'll get a real kick out of it."

"An' you and your father are close?" The Doctor went on to say, completely oblivious of the doublewalker in the room.

"Oh, that's a good question, Dean . . . how close are we with dear ol' Dad? Cause for some damn reason I don't recall gettin' a birthday card this year."

Dean forced a fake smile, gritting his teeth as he looked to the doublewalker then refocused his attention on Doctor Warner, trying his damnedest to forget the doppelgänger was in the same room as them. "Course we are," Dean muttered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he tugged against the straitjacket that held his arms firmly around his stomach. Straining his leg muscles, he tried to loosen the padded cuffs around his ankles that held him prisoner in the chair, to no avail. "Are these ankle cuffs really necessary?" he asked, hoping that the doctor would see that he posed no threat and would remove them. "It's not like I'm going anywhere in a straitjacket."

"I'm sorry, Dean, but you physically assaulted one of my staff members, so I must take precautions to ensure it doesn't happen again." Although he cast an apologetic look in Dean's direction, Dean noticed the mirthful glint in the man's dark eyes. If Dean wasn't mistaken, it almost seemed to him as if the older man enjoyed wielding his position of power over him. "Now let's get back to talking about your father. How often do you visit with him, and when you do, do you argue a lot?"

"He's been away for a while," Dean reluctantly admitted. In truth, he hadn't heard from his father in months except for the text coordinates to the Roosevelt Asylum, but he wasn't about to tell the psychiatrist that much information about his family life. "An' every family has their arguments," he added as the doctor quirked a brow in clear disbelief, "but for the most part we get along just fine."

"Except for the part where they both left us. Right, Dean?" The doublewalker slid away from his perch and came to stand directly behind Dean's chair. Gripping a hold of Dean's shoulders, he leaned in and taunted, "Why don't you tell him how we busted our ass, bending over backwards for them, an' they jus' left us the first chance they got. I'm sure he'd loved to hear that cause head-shrinks just live for that kinda shit."

"Why don't you shut the hell up," Dean murmured through clenched teeth, the fake smile never leaving his face.

"Excuse me?" Doctor Warner narrowed his beady little eyes on Dean, and then began writing something in his file.

"I didn't say anything."

"Sorry, I could've sworn you did . . . So, where were we." He tapped his finger against his temple as if trying to recall what he had been talking about before Dean's sudden outburst, and then smiled. "Ahhh yes, you an' your family argued." Doctor Warner stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I can imagine things got quite heated at times. After all, I have seen how well both you an' your brother handle confrontation of any sorts."

If Dean didn't know any better, he could've sworn the older man was baiting him, trying to make him lose his temper so he would be justified in having Dean committed against his own will. "No more so than any other family, I would imagine. Like I said, we all loved to hunt an' took out our aggressions there."

"Wow, he's really good, Dean." The doublewalker chuckled as he clapped Dean on the back. "Bare your soul to him . . . tell him how we never got that pony we wanted when we were six, an' that's the reason we're so screwed up today."

"I never wanted a pony." Dean mumbled as he eyed his exact twin, consciously willing him to disappear before the doppelgänger made him appear as crazy as Doctor Warner thought him to be.

"Awww . . . sure we did, Dean. What little kid doesn't want a pony. Although it really doesn't matter anyway cause Sammy would've whined about it endlessly. Then he would've given us that sad little puppy dog look he always uses to get us to do what he wants, an' we would have given our pony to him . . . Sam really sucks, you know that, right?"

"So then what you're saying is that you have a lot of pent up anger building inside of you, an' the only way to release it is by using a deadly weapon?" the doctor went on to say as if he hadn't heard Dean mention that he didn't want a pony. Yet from the way he had scrawled something more down in his notes, Dean was certain he hadn't missed the comment.

"I didn't say that," Dean was quick to defend, feeling as if Doctor Warner was backing him into a corner, and felt his anger start to boil just below the surface of his outwardly calm exterior. "All I said was that we liked to hunt."

"Monsters . . . you like to hunt monsters," the doppelgänger once again cut in on the conversation, garnering a glare from Dean. "Just say it, dude . . . he looks like an open-minded kinda guy, I'm sure he'll find nothin' at all strange about it."

"But you also like to fight." Doctor Warner made a sweeping gesture around Dean's face, to all the cuts and bruises he had gotten while he was at the Roosevelt Asylum with Sam. "An' apparently so does Sam because his face looks about as bad as yours. Not to mention the older gentleman you brought in here the night Sam was admitted for observation. Which one of you beat him up?"

"You got it all wrong, neither of us ever laid a finger on Bobby."

"So you admit to beating the hell out of each other then?" Doctor Warner pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose as he looked to Dean, waiting for a response.

"I'm not admitting anything." Dean's voice rose in anger and frustration. Between the doctor's pointed questions and his doubles's taunts, he was quickly losing his patience. He shifted restlessly in his seat as he tried in vain to free himself from the restraints, wanting nothing more at the moment than to strangle the life out the doppelgänger.

"Tell him Sam threw the first punch an' we were just defending ourselves." His twin chuckled as he moved away from Dean to wander freely about the office. "He already thinks Sammy's out of his freakin' mind anyway. So why not do something a little different this time around an' try an' save ourself instead of always putting Sam first?"

"Jus' shut the hell up," Dean growled as he watched the doublewalker take a seat on the couch and prop his feet up on the coffee table.

"I'm just trying to help you, Dean," the doctor interjected, apparently believing the comment was meant for him. Eying Dean intently, Dr Warner leaned forward, rested his forearms on the desk and laced his fingers together. "And in my professional opinion, I do believe you are in desperate need of psychiatric care." As he continued to watch Dean, waiting for some sort of reaction to his remark, he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a syringe. "I would be remiss in my duties of Chief of Psychiatric Medicine if I didn't recommend that you be admitted for further evaluation. Yet, I don't necessarily believe this hospital setting is the right kind of atmosphere to suit your own personal mental health care issues."

"What's that supposed to me?" Dean asked, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watched the doctor pull out a small vial of liquid from his desk drawer and fill the syringe.

"I've determined that you need more intensive therapy that only I can offer you. It's an experimental program," he went on to say as he pushed back his chair and rose to stand, "but one that I think will be very effective in your case."

"What the hell are you talkin' about?" Dean struggled against his restraints as the doctor walked toward him with needle in hand.

"Something's not right about that guy, Dean, get the hell out of that chair now," the doublewalker ordered, his earlier amusement over the situation now gone as concern clearly shaded his tone. He sprang to his feet, and rushed to Dean's side. "Damn it, get your ass up," he hissed as he struggled uselessly against Dean's restraints.

"Maybe if you'd help me jus' a little I could," Dean snapped as he kicked out against the cuffs wrapped firmly around his ankles.

"What part of me bein' a demon of your subconscious mind weren't you gettin'?" the doublewalker stood back, and raised a brow as he stared at Dean questioningly. "I mean, if I could've gotten us out of here, don't you think we'd be gone by now?"

"I am here to help you, Dean," Doctor Warner assured as he lowered his hand to administer the sedative. "I can make all your anger and pain go away."

"Get the hell away from me, you sonuvabitch," Dean snarled as he kicked and bucked in his chair.

"See, all this anger and aggression is what I'm referring to," the doctor said as he jabbed the needle into Dean's neck, and squeezed the plunger. "Now just relax and let the sedative do its job. And when you wake up, we can begin working on making you all better."

"Don't you dare listen to him, Dean," the doublewalker hissed as he slapped Dean hard across the face, "you stay the hell awake. You hear me?"

"D-damn it, I-I'm tr-tryin'," Dean muttered, feeling as if his tongue was thick and useless as he tried to speak. Everything shifted in and out of focus as his eyelids fluttered open and closed as the strong sedative worked its way through his system.

"If we don't fight against this, we're gonna die, Dean," his double warned, overwhelming fear now evident in his voice. "I'm a doppelgänger, for God sake, an' everything we know about my kind says if we don't get out of this now, we're gonna die. So damn it, you fight this."

Hearing this, Dean redoubled his efforts to break free from his bonds, but the more he fought against the straitjacket, the quicker his strength left him. "J-Jus' h-help m-me a lil'," he mumbled as his head lolled to the side and his eyes closed.

"I'm sorry, I can't." As Dean quickly lost consciousness, the doublewalker faded away.

"Don't worry, Dean," the doctor patted him on the shoulder in what he would deem a comforting manner, "I intend to help you and your brother."


	8. Chapter 8

I have to say I just loved writing this chappy as this is probably my favorite story to write!! hope everyone enjoys...let me know what you think!! thanks for reading and for the awesome reviews!! bambers;)

_Chapter Eight_

Dean slowly pried his eyes open, and blinking back the pain the bright lights caused he took a look around at his surroundings. If anything good could be said about his current prison, it would have to be that the place was extremely sterile. The strong scent of bleach cleaner clung to the air, stinging his eyes and making it almost hard to breathe. Nothing but a sea of white and cold steel met his gaze. Rolling his eyes backward, he tilted his head as far as he could manage and saw a glass wall behind him. Next to the glass partition a black box had been inset into the wall with a call button beside it. In the far corner, he noticed a sink, toilet and shower stall with a flimsy, opaque shower curtain hanging from plastic hooks. Overhead, on either side of the room, two cameras had been placed to record Dean's every movement.

_So much for privacy._

With a groan, he eased his way into a sitting position and hung his legs over the side of the bed. Raking his fingers through his hair, his hand then trailed downward to the back of his neck, and a puzzled frown crossed his features as his hand touched upon something that felt like a small box. Now more than just a little bit confused, he worked his fingers around to the front of his throat and slipped them beneath the thick collar that the box was bolted to, and yanked hard. Instantly he recoiled, his entire body quaking and tensing as several volts of electricity shot down the length of his spine.

_Damn, this is so not good. I gotta get out of here and find Sammy._

On his feet in a shot, Dean wavered momentarily as a wave of nausea washed over him. The room shifted in and out of focus as he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, and after several very long seconds the feeling slowly passed. Steadying himself, he headed toward the glass wall and peered out into the long corridor. On either side, from one end of the hallway to the other, were rooms just like his own. In the room right across the hall, he noticed a young man, who must have been in his early twenties, laying on a bed.

Dean balled his hand into a fist to pound on the glass in an attempt to gain the sandy-haired man's attention. But the moment his hand made contact with the smooth surface another surge of electricity shot through his body, throwing him backward to the floor.

_Sonuvabitch. _

Pressing his hands against the floor, Dean pushed himself to his feet. Now more pissed off than confused, he swung to search for a way to get out of the room, but couldn't find a single door in the entire place. "There's gotta be a way out of here. There just as to be."

Slowly he made his way around the entire expanse of his prison, searching for a hidden doorway, but couldn't find even the smallest crack in the walls, let alone a full doorway. His head fell backward onto his shoulders as he glanced up at the ceiling, thinking there might be a way to get out of the room from up above, but again it was a solid.

"They got me in here somehow, there has to be a freakin' way out."

As he was about to turn his attention to moving the bed to see what lay hidden beneath it, a buzzer sounded, and then a voice came over the intercom he had seen on the wall.

"Welcome, case number 654-2345. I hope you are making yourself at home and finding things to your liking."

"Oh, you've gotta be freakin' kidding me." Dean swung to glare at one of the two cameras. "Let me out of here. Now!"

"This is a twenty-four hour a day care facility for the mentally insane," the staccato voice went on to say as if whomever was speaking hadn't heard a word Dean had said. "Forest Lawn is a government run institution, and as such we are able to implement the most advance and state of the art treatments for each of our patients."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Dean pivoted on his heel to look back out the glass partition. "There's nothin' wrong with me."

"It is forbidden to leave your room without being accompanied by one of our medical staff," the disembodied female voice went on to say. "If you need assistance at any hour of the day or night, please press the call button, and a member of the staff will respond as soon as they are able."

"Oh, sweetheart, as soon as I find a way out of here, I'm so gone."

"Please refrain from touching the glass. Although it is in place for your protection, and for doctor observation, it is electrified and therefore highly dangerous."

"Observation?" Dean's brows pulled together in a scowl as he stormed to the glass wall and peered out again. "Goddamn it, I'm not a freakin' lab rat. Let me the hell out of here."

"You will notice an identification collar around your throat," the woman went on to advise as Dean touched the sturdy band around his neck, "under no circumstances are you to try and remove it. All medical information pertaining to you is embedded into this device. To try and remove it without proper medical supervision could result in a life threatening injury or even death."

"So what you're sayin' is that I'm royally screwed?" Scrubbing his hand across his face, Dean mentally went over everything the woman had said, trying to figure out a way out of the room if leaving there meant that he could die.

"The medical device around your neck is also a satellite tracking device that is automatically activated the moment you leave your room until your return."

_Damn it, I'm so freakin' screwed. _He trudged to his bed and slumped down on the mattress. "How long till I can get out of here?"

"Two steel rods have been surgically implanted into the base of your neck," The woman went on to say, once again ignoring Dean's question. "It is very important that you never pull on the collar as if it touches the two steel implants it will emit a strong electrical charge. To do so could result in permanent paralysis or death, and therefore we strongly advice against it."

"Living good, touching collar, bad . . . gotcha." Dean lightly pressed his fingers against the collar, and then moved his hand around to the back of his throat, and carefully sliding his fingers beneath the band he felt the two small steel rods sticking out of his neck. "Yeah, definitely screwed."

"For your own protection, Forest Lawn strictly forbids contact with other patients within the facility."

"I wanna see my brother now," Dean demanded, slamming his hand down on the bed in utter frustration and anger.

"As our primary goal as a care facility is to see that you as an individual get the best treatment possible, contact with family members is also strictly forbidden for the first month. After this point it is up to the determination of your doctor as to whether supervised visits will be allowed."

"You can't keep me here against my will." Dean shot to his feet, and began stalking back and forth, fists clenching and unclenching as his anger swelled. "Damn it, I wanna see my brother."

"Attention, patient 654-2345," came a male voice over the loudspeaker, and for a moment Dean didn't realize he was speaking to him until he felt a volt of electricity surge through his collar that nearly knocked him off his feet. "Internal diagnostics indicate a rise in blood pressure and elevated heart rate. Brainwave patterns show a marked increase in hostility levels. Please calm down, 654-2345, or measures will be taken to assure your own personal well-being and safety."

"Hostility?" Dean's brows furrow together as his scowl deepened. "Oh, you ain't seen nothin' yet, you sonuvabitch." Swinging around, he slammed his foot into the bed, moving it several inches. Not yet finished, he stormed to the bed and grabbing hold of the metal frame he flipped it over, and pushed it away with enough force that it slammed into the wall.

"Patient 654-2345, profanity of any nature is strictly forbidden, and will not be tolerated," the male voice warned. "Violent outbursts will result in immediate sedation."

"Huh, is that right, you bastard. Then why don't you get your ass in here an' try an' sedate me?" Dean stalked to a small chest of drawers, overturned it and kicked it across the floor to smash into the bed. "Don't see you comin' to stop me, asshole."

As Dean swung to find something else to throw or kick, a high-pitch buzzer sounded as stronger jolt of electricity rippled down his spine. Muscles spasming and twitching, Dean's knees buckled and he crashed to the ground. Of their own volition, Dean's fingers curled inward, bending at odd angles as he writhed on the ground. Then just as abruptly as the excruciating pain began it was over, leaving Dean weak and shaken.

Another buzzer sounded as the woman's voice came back over the intercom. "For your own safety, please remain calm and seated, patient 654-2345. We will now commence with X-14 airborne sedation."

"Wha- . . . wait," Dean cried out as he tried to get to his feet, but his legs were shaking so badly he couldn't manage it. "Wait, don't do this." A steady hissing sound suddenly came from the air ducts overhead and also from the vents in the floor, the ventilation system filtering in a hazy white mist into the room. Sheer panic overwhelming him, Dean stumbled to his feet and rushed headlong into the only thing that could pass for a possible means of escape. Slamming into the glass partition at full-speed, the hunter was thrown backward as white-hot electrical sparks showered down on him.

"Sonuv . . . ." His voice trailed off as the powerful sedative took hold, and quickly drew him into darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

Lol, I am actually indulging myself by working on this story as I just love writing it!! To those who are waiting for a Sam chappy, that will come in the next chappy...hope everyone who is still reading is enjoying the story. I have to say that this will probably be a very long story as there is so much going on in it. thanks for reading and for all the really great reviews bambers;)

_Chapter Nine  
_

When Dean finally fought his way back to consciousness, the very first thing he noticed after his vision had cleared was that his prison was once again in pristine order. A dinner tray had been set on a small table beside his bed, but it looked as if it had been there quite a while. While Dean was practically starving and knew he needed to keep up his strength so he would be able to eventually escape, the bland looking food on the paper plate looked less and less appealing as the moments ticked by. Yet even if it had been a cheeseburger with extra onions and a side of fries, he probably still wouldn't have eaten it as there was no way of telling if it might have been poisoned.

Pushing the uneaten food aside, Dean slipped off his bed and headed over to the glass wall. The young sandy-haired man across the hall was now up and walking around the perimeter of his room like a gerbil going round and round on a wheel but getting nowhere fast. As he passed by the window, he paused and looked in Dean's direction for the briefest of moments before picking up his pace to circle around the room again. After watching the younger man's odd routine for a few more minutes, Dean shifted his position to get a better look down the long corridor.

With his head dangerously close to the electrified wall, he narrowed his eyes and saw several men dressed in military uniforms heading in his direction. A young woman wearing a nurse's uniform and carrying a clipboard walked beside them. As they made their way closer to Dean's room, he noticed how they would stop in front of each room, talk for a few seconds as the nurse took notes and then move on.

Dean moved away from the glass as the military officers came to stand in front of his room. An older man with short graying hair, stroked his beard thoughtfully as he scrutinized Dean. A sick feeling worked its way into the pit of his stomach as the man turned to another officer and gestured toward Dean as he spoke. The younger, dark-haired officer nodded in agreement with whatever the older man had said to him, and then he glanced up at Dean. Pale gray eyes held Dean's gaze for a moment before he said something to the nurse that brought a smile to her lips.

The petite brunette scrawled down a few notes about Dean, and then they turned away to access the sandy-haired man across the corridor. As soon as he saw them, the younger man backed into the corner, slid down the wall, and folding himself into a tight ball, he covered his head with his arms. Although Dean hadn't seen a single mark or bruise on his fellow captive, whatever they had done to him had left him absolutely terrified.

"Dean," his doublewalker called out from behind him, and Dean jumped, startled by the sound of his own voice coming from the creature. "Get away from there before you draw their attention to us again."

"What do you think they're doing?" Dean asked, and quickly swung around so that officers and the nurse wouldn't see him and think he was talking to himself. "An' why do you think that guy across the hall from us is so damn scared of them?"

"I dunno, dude, but whatever it is, it can't be good." From his perch on the bed, he pointed toward the two cameras. "They're watchin' so I'd be careful about talkin' to myself if I were you. Which I am, so stop talkin' to your damn self before we end up cowerin' in a corner like that guy over there."

"Did they bring Sammy here, too?" Dean asked, making a conscious effort to move his lips as little as possible as he spoke.

"I don't even know where the hell we are, Dean, so how could I know if they have Sammy? An' I say better him than us anyway."

Dean walked the short distance to the bed and sat beside his twin. Heaving a sigh, he scrubbed a hand across his face as he watched the officers move on to the next room. "What do you think they want with me?"

"I dunno, looks like they're gonna use us like some sort of lab rat, an' I really don't like the sound of that."

"Me either." Another weary sigh escaped Dean as he stood and began pacing back and forth. "So how do you think they're getting' in an' out of here if there are no doors in this place?"

The doppelgänger shrugged, splaying his arms out to the side. "Your guess is as good as mine. When you were out cold, so was I." His twin chuckled. "Smart idea by the way, running headlong into that electrified glass. Tell me what you really thought was gonna happen there. Think you have some sort of superpowers that I don't know about or are you just immune to being electrocuted?"

"Can you at least try an' be helpful here for a moment, cause my guess is that if I die then so do you."

Hearing this, the doublewalker instantly sobered, the smile disappearing from its face. "My best guess," he nudged his head toward the glass wall. "that glass partition must somehow slide open."

"That was my thoughts, too."

"Course it was, seein' as we have the same thoughts."

Dean headed over to corner of the room where the glass butted up against solid wall, tilted his head to the side, and noticed a narrow gape. He then knelt down and ran his fingers along the side of a metal track running the length of the wall. "Okay, so it does open, now we jus' got figure out how to make it open for us an' we're so outta here."

"That whole thing where it's electrified has jus' slipped right past you, hasn't it." The doublewalker groaned as he stood and strode to where Dean was kneeling on the floor, and sunk to his knees. "Seriously, it's a wonder we didn't die a long time ago."

"What would you have me do?" Dean scowled at his mirrored double as he raked his hand through his hair in utter frustration. "They probably have Sammy in here somewhere, an' I'm not about to let them hurt him."

"It's always about Sammy, isn't it, Dean? The doppelgänger's voice rose in anger as he pushed himself to his feet to stalk back to the bed. "What about us? We're trapped in here, too. An' God only knows what they're gonna do to us. So, why can't our needs come first just for once?"

As Dean listened to his double speak, a plan formed in his mind. The doppelgänger had admitted before that he had been able to enter Sam's mind. If he could get to Sam now then maybe Dean could find out where he was which would make it a lot easier to find him once he escaped. "I want you to find Sammy for me." He held up a hand to stop the doublewalker from arguing any further. "I know you can so don't even try an' deny it."

"An' why would I want to do that for you?" The doppelgänger laughed, his voice now taking on a menacing tone. "If you haven't figured it out by now, I want Sam to suffer. I've actually been waiting for it for a helluva long time."

"Oh, you'll do it," Dean hissed as he held his hand up dangerously close to the glass partition. "Or I'll fry us both."

"You wouldn't dare," the doublewalker breathed as he leapt off the bed and rushed toward Dean. "You'll die, too, if you do."

"I don't care," Dean stoically replied, fingers hovering ever closer to the electrified glass, causing the doublewalker to stop dead in his tracks. "An' don't think for a moment that I won't do it either."

"Oh, I know you would, Dean, cause it's exactly what I would do." Dean's mirrored double eyed him for a moment, and then gave a curt nod. "Fine, you want me to go an' find Sam then that's exactly what I'll do." An evil smile slid across his features as he gave a subtle shrug. "But don't expect me to come back, an' don't forget for a moment that I have my own little agenda as far as Sammy is concerned," it said and before Dean had a chance to try and stop the doppelgänger, it disappeared in a misty cloud of black smoke.

"That sonuvabitch," Dean growled, furious with himself for not catching the doublewalker before it vanished.

"Attention, patient 654-2345," a deeply masculine voice came over the loudspeaker within a few seconds after Dean cursed at the doublewalker. "Profanity is strictly prohibited. Any further use of obscenities will result in immediate sedation and corrective measures will be taken."

"What the hell do you mean by corrective measures?" Dean leapt to his feet and swung to glare at one of the cameras. "Damn it, why don't you come down here an' face me like a man, you bastard."

"Patient 654-2345, please prepare for X-14 airborne sedation," the disembodied voice replied, lacking any sort of inflection in its tone. "For your own personal safety it is suggested that you make yourself comfortable on the bed provided to you. Failure to comply will be seen as a lack of cooperation on your part and will be dealt with accordingly."

"If you think I'm gonna do just what you tell me to do, then you're out of your freakin' mind." He pivoted on his heel to glare at the other camera, and gave whomever was watching him the finger. "An' that's what I think of your freakin' airborne sedation, asshole."

"Patient 654-2345, please prepare for RI-172 Nerve and Muscle Stimulation," the male voice announced a moment before a high-pitched buzzer rang throughout Dean's prison.

"Nerve wha -- " Dean's voice trailed off abruptly as every single nerve in his body began to tingle. At first it felt like the tingly, numbing sensation that occurred if one of his arms or feet fell asleep, and although it was slightly uncomfortable, he didn't find it to be all that painful. But then it intensified, causing all his muscles to contract and cramp. His eyelids snapped shut, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pry them open. Horrific pain brought him to his knees as both his thighs and calves Charlie-horsed at the exact same time.

Unceremoniously dropping face first to the ground, he tried to scream out for them to stop, but his jaw clenched tight, allowing him to emit nothing more than a small muffled moan. His fingers curled inward to form unbreakable fists as the muscles in his arms seized. Dean's body jerked and spasmed of its own volition as the onslaught continued to ravage his body and steal away any conscious thought except for how to make the pain go away.

Fear gripped a firm hold on him as a sudden searing pain ripped though his chest as his heart contracted. Tears slipped down the sides of his cheeks as the tight, squeezing sensation in his heart intensified. Then just as abruptly as the pain began, it vanished at the sound of the buzzer ringing.

"Now commencing with X-14 airborne sedation," came a distant, muffled sounding voice.

Another buzzer sounded as the air in the room turned hazy with the airborne gas filtering into the room through ventilation system. Although Dean tried his damnedest to fight off the powerful sedative, his eyelids all-too-soon drooped closed as darkness welcomed him into its protective embrace.


	10. Chapter 10

Hope this Sam chappy will satisfy those who were wondering what he's been up to while Dean is trapped in the gov. institution...hope everyone who is still reading is enjoying the story. thanks for reading and for all the really great reviews bambers;)

_Chapter Ten_

"I think we have a problem," Doctor Carter said as he entered Bobby's room, and closed the door behind him to afford them some privacy. "Actually I think we have several of them, so which would you like to hear first? The bad news, the really bad news, or what I like to refer to as damn, we're really screwed news?"

Bobby glanced up from gathering his possessions together, and noticed the troubled look that crossed the doctor's features. Although Winchester luck, or lack of luck as it were, was nothing new to Bobby, he understood how it might send someone like the young doctor running as far away from the boys as he could possibly manage. "Might as well hear the we're really screwed news first. Can't be any worse than some of the other things that have happened to Sam an' Dean."

"Dean was released from the hospital today," Jason said without preamble as he tossed his clipboard on the bed and slumped down on the chair that sat beside it.

"As far as news goes, that sounds pretty damn good, so what's the problem?" Bobby snatch his trucker hat off the bedside table, and smoothing back his hair, he placed the cap on his head.

"Before he left, he signed papers to have Sam committed."

"Not possible. Dean would never do that to his brother."

"Have a look for yourself." Jason nudged his head toward the clipboard as he heaved a weary sigh.

Bobby grabbed the clipboard and quickly scanned the content of the document before he looked at the signature on the bottom of the second page. As he studied the name written in the lower left-hand corner of the paper, he yanked his cap off and scratched his head, thoroughly perplexed. Although the signature appeared to be in Dean's handwriting, Bobby still couldn't believe the eldest Winchester would willing have Sam committed. "This has to be some kind of mistake or a damn near perfect forgery."

"So it is Dean's handwriting?" Jason pushed forward in his seat and took the clipboard from Bobby. "Cause if it is than he assigned Sam's care over to Doctor Warner."

"An' what does that mean?" Bobby quirked a brow in question. A queasy feeling settled into the pit of his stomach as he eyed the prematurely balding man.

"It means I no longer have access to Sam or to his files if that really is Dean's signature."

"Let me give Dean a call cause that has to be a forgery." Bobby yanked out his cell phone, and flipping it open, he jabbed the button to call the eldest Winchester. "Damn it, where are you, boy," he muttered after the call went to voice mail after several rings. After hearing Dean's message and then a beep, Bobby left a message. "Dean as soon as you get this message, you call me back, you hear? Sam's in it real deep, an' you're the only one who can clear this damn mess up. So call me back." Snapping the phone shut, Bobby placed it back in his pocket.

"So should we wait for him to call or should we try and get Sam out of here before Doctor Warner sees this document?" Doctor Carter asked as he rose to stand.

"I think we have no choice but to break him out of here."

"Thought you might say that," the doctor said with a grin, and if Bobby didn't know any better, he might have believed that the younger man was actually enjoying the opportunity to break a few of the hospital rules. "My car's parked near one of the emergency exits out back. If you wait for me there, I'll go get Sam an' bring him out."

"Maybe it would be better if I got him an' you waited for us."

Doctor Carter heaved a sigh as he shook his head. "Look, we can stand here an' argue about this all night, but in the end I'm the only one who can get him out of here without raising too much suspicion. Not to mention the fact that I'll probably have to sedate him, an' I really can't see you doing that."

"Alright," Bobby reluctantly agreed, still not certain if he trusted the doctor. "But if anything happens to Sam, you're the one I'm gonna be coming after." He allowed a moment for the threat to sink in fully before adding, "These boys are the closest thing to family I've got, an' I ain't about to let anything happen to them. Understand?"

"I promise Sam will be safe with me," Carter said as he turned his back on Bobby, and headed for the door.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Jason stood just inside the doorway of Sam's hospital and watched as the younger man restlessly paced back and forth in the small expanse. After their last encounter, the doctor was more than a little apprehensive to approach the mental patient. While the restraints Sam was wearing might have been enough to subdue most patients, Jason had witnessed firsthand how lethal the young hunter could be even without the use of his hands, and wasn't about to underestimate him again.

_I could kill you right now . . . crush your windpipe, but I'm not gonna, _he heard Sam's cruel taunt in his head, and instinctively slid a hand up to his throat in a protective manner as he took a few more steps into the room. At that moment, Sam turned in his paces, glanced up at Jason, and the doctor stopped dead in his tracks.

"Where's my husband?" Sam asked in a low, almost feminine voice as he looked beyond the doctor toward the doorway. "Where's Sanford? He promised he'd come to see me, an' I've been waitin' for hours now."

"Sanford?" Jason asked, confusion briefly registering across his features, but quickly realized another one of Sam's alter-egos was now making its presence known. "If you can tell me who he is, I can try and find him for you."

Sam narrowed his eyes on Jason. "He's my husband, you dimwitted, sniveling twit. Head of this hospital . . . your boss. Any of this ringing a bell or are you just another crazy dressing up like a doctor?" Shaking his head in clear disbelief, Sam groaned and set off to pacing again.

"If you can tell me your name and his maybe I can find him for you." Jason eased himself closer to the mentally unstable man. Although he didn't necessarily think Sam's newest personality was dangerous, he still slipped a hand into his pocket to grab hold of the sedative he had placed there before entering the room.

"Like you don't know my name is Susan," Sam snapped as he swung to glare at Jason. "Is my husband playing games with me again? Is he sending you here to punish me again because of what happened?"

"Why would he want to punish you, Susan?" Intrigued by the hunter's comments, Jason momentarily forgetting the real reason he was there to see Sam. "What does he think you did that he would want to punish you by keeping you here?"

"It's all my fault you know . . . Bo said . . . Bo knows the truth, but Sanford won't listen," Sam's voice rose several octaves he pivoted around on his heel as if looking for someone or something Jason couldn't see. "They're all around, you know . . . they watch you an' take what's yours. You have to be very careful." He squiched his eyelids closed as he repeatedly brushed the side of his head against his shoulder. "They get in here an' talk to you . . . whisper words an' talk . . . an' it never stops . . . never stops."

"What happened to you, Susan?" Jason slid his other hand into his pocket and flipped on his voice recorder, hoping that in Sam's crazed ramblings he would say something that might help in finding a cure for him.

"It's all my fault . . . the demons . . . they're real you know . . . they're up here." Sam took a step toward Jason as he tried to lift his arms to gesture toward his head. "They took her from me . . . Bo tried to stop them. Buried her in a shallow grave. . . there is a cold dark place in my mind. It is where my soul seeks comfort, but finds none. From shallow graves and sleepless nights, I have somehow lost my way."

"Who was buried in a shallow grave, Susan?" Jason asked pointedly, understanding that Susan's underlying guilt came from whatever had happened to this person she was ranting about. If he was going to lay Susan's guilt to rest, thereby releasing her from Sam's mind, he needed to know where that grave was located. "Who did they take from you?"

"He blamed me . . . saw it in his eyes . . . they watch you, you know . . . always there," Sam's voice grew more frantic as he swiveled on his heel again, desperately searching for whatever was haunting his mind. His unnerving gaze darted back and forth, never settling on one place for more than a second. "They took her . . . so small . . . so little . . . black eyes . . . shallow grave. Sleepless nights."

Understanding finally dawning on him, Doctor Carter asked, "Was she your baby? Did they take your baby from you?"

"I had to . . . my fault . . . ." Tears slipped down Sam's cheeks as he dropped to his knees and cried out. Deep mournful sobs tore from his lips as he glanced down at his wrists.

Jason followed his gaze, and his breath caught in his throat when he noticed a deep stain of red seeping out from beneath the straitjacket Sam was wearing. He rushed around behind Sam, fell to his knees, and hastily undid the straps securing the restraint. "You killed yourself, didn't you?"

"My fault . . . he tried to take it from me . . . burned away my mind . . . left nothing there . . . but he couldn't do it . . . I-I wouldn't let him. It's mine. I can't let him take it from me."

With the last of the straps untethered, Jason eased the straitjacket off of Sam, and grabbed hold of both of his wrists, checking them throughly for any wounds, but found none. "You were bleeding?" Peering down at the jacket that he had tossed aside in his hast to help the younger man, he quirked a puzzled brow when he saw there was no blood on the garment. "I know what I saw . . . it was there."

A mirthless chuckle slipped from Sam as he slammed a fist into the older man's jaw. "Yeah, can't always believe what you see." His eyes rapidly changed from hazel to a deep shade of brown. "I winnin', Doc. They're all fallen right in line, an' there's no way in hell I'm gonna let you try an' take that from me."

Jason rubbed at his bruised and aching jaw as he warily eyed Sam. "R-Reeves?"

"Give the man a prize." A slow demented smirk spread across Sam's features. "I let Susan come out an' play for a little while, just knowing you wouldn't be able to resist her. She really is quite pathetic." Sam leapt to his feet, and before Jason could even think to react, he kicked him squarely in the gut. "You see, demons got inside her pretty little head, an' she killed her own daughter. There's no getting rid of guilt like that. An' even if there was, I'm not about to let you try an' help her." The youngest Winchester kicked Jason in the stomach again. "But we all wanna thank you for freeing us from here." He knelt beside Jason and gripped hold of his shirt, yanking him upward off the floor so their faces were mere inches apart. "Sam's getting' weaker by the moment . . . his big brother is no where around inside of here." He jabbed at his temple. "Guess he figured I was the better man, an' somehow jumped ship before I had the chance to kill him. So it really won't be long now before Sam is dead, an' I can be reborn." Cocking back his arm, he slammed it into Jason's face. "Now I just have to go an' take care of that old man those boys are so fond of, an' then I'm free." With that said, he rose to stand, and headed for the door, calling back over his shoulder, "If you know what's good for you, stay away from Roosevelt, Doc. Cause if I find you anywhere around there, don't think for a moment that I won't kill you like I killed Ellicott."


	11. Chapter 11

_So, I know I am way behind in updating everything and I am truly sorry for the delays, but at moment I have to put my family first. thanks for reading and for the awesome reviews. Not sure why the first paragraph is stuck in italics, but i couldn't fix it...ugh...Bambers;)_

_Chapter Eleven_

_At the sound of someone clearing their throat, Dean's eyelids fluttered open. The room shifted in and out of focus as he struggled to keep his sights trained on the man who sat directly across from him. He tried to push himself out of his chair, but the restraints around his wrists and ankles held him firmly in place. His arms and legs trembled uncontrollably as he continued to squirm in his seat. Sweat glistening on his forehead from exertion, and drained of what little strength he had left, Dean stilled and glared at the balding man. _

"Are you just about finished with your little tirade?" the dark-eyed man asked, and then motioned to a IV stand beside Dean, and for the first time he noticed the plastic tubing running from the IV bag to his arm. "Don't fight it, Dean. It'll help you let go of all the pain."

Clear liquid dripped from the bag, coursed through the tubing, and rushed through Dean's veins. Terrified, Dean redoubled his efforts to escape, writhing against the restraints until the skin burned beneath the metal bands and tore open. Droplets of blood splattered on the white tiled floor as the drug continued to pour through his veins.

"My name's Doctor Ellicott," the balding man went onto say as if he didn't realize Dean was being held there against his will. "And it's my job to make you well again so you can resume a normal life."

"S-Sanford Ellicott?" Dean slurred, confusion racking his brain. "You sonuvabitch – " His words abruptly died on his lips as a volt of electricity surged through his body. Fingers curling inward of their own accord, his body shot forward in the chair. Teeth tightly clenched, his face contorted in pain. After a few moments the shock eased away, but it took several minutes for the tingling sensation to leave Dean's body entirely.

"James. Sanford was my father." Ellicott clarified as he opened Dean's file and flipped through it. "You're file was flagged and you were brought here because Doctor Warner believed you would benefit from my rage management program," he went on to say without glancing up at Dean.

"What the – " the word _hell _nearly slipped out of his mouth, but he quickly caught himself, not about to give them reason to shock him again. He needed to reserve his strength to escape, and if that meant playing along with the no swearing rule for now, it was a small concession he was willing to make. "What are you talking about?"

"I've spent years refining the work my father started at the Roosevelt Asylum, and eventually I was contacted by this institution to put my work into practice here in their facility."

"You're father was a nut job," Dean uttered, brow furrowing in disgust when he noticed the slight twitch in the corner of Doctor Ellicott's right eye. "I read what he was doing to his patients, an' here's a news flash for ya, he was out of his mind an' needed to be locked up worse than anyone there."

"We're not here to discuss my father." Setting aside the file, Jame's smiled as he leaned forward in his seat and rested his elbows against his thighs. "We're here to focus on you. This rage you have inside of you is a monster that needs to be quieted." He gestured toward the glass partition, pointing at sandy-haired man across the corridor. "Unfortunately, sometimes the demons inside win as in the case of patient 421-786, but there is only a small percentile who don't respond well to treatment."

Dean shifted his gaze to the man he had seen walking in circles around his room earlier and noticed that he was now sitting cross-legged on his bed, ripping and pulling out chunks of his own hair. Dark circles rimmed the man's haunted eyes as he stared unseeingly at Dean, and the younger man didn't even seem to notice or flinch as wisps of hair floated down to cover his mattress.

"What'd you do to him?" Dean asked incredulously, horrified to think that anyone would willingly acknowledge that what had been done to the man was an acceptable loss.

"We're here to discuss you, Dean." Doctor Ellicott's tone turned placating as he regarded the man behind the glass for a moment longer before focusing all his attention on Dean.

"Screw you, I'm not some damn guinea pig who's mind you can fu – mess with." Dean braced himself, awaiting another shock for saying the word damn, but either Ellicott hadn't heard him say it or had chosen to let it slide for the moment. But his relief was short lived as he realized he was just another lab rat in this sewer they called an institution. Already they were changing him, molding him into what they wanted. His freedom of speech had been forcefully taken from him with each delivered shock he received, and he wondered how long it would be until his will was bent to their commands.

"I see you as a volcano, Dean." James' clasped his hands together and laid them on his knees. He remained quiet for a moment to allow Dean time to process what he had stated, and then continued onward. "Some people are like ticking time bomb. They hold everything in, and it builds and build until they explode. A ticking time bomb," he reiterated as if Dean hadn't understood him the first time. "Now, a volcano, much like a time bomb, is slow going at first, but as pressure builds and smolders without some sort of release for all its rage, it goes off and the destruction it leaves in its path is pure devastation."

"I'm a volcano." Dean rolled his eyes at the absurdity of Ellicott's assessment of him. "So what's the guy across the hall? An amusement park?"

"No," Jame's gave a curt shake of his head, a deadly serious expression now taking control of his features. "He was a volcano just like you. The thing with your type personality is that you are so hellbent on controlling things . . . holding in all your emotions, taking care of everything and everyone around you, your mind eventually snaps and you end up turning that rage on everyone. You're the type of man who will buy a gun, go into a crowded mall and start blowing everyone away. It's my job to see that that never happens."

Even if Ellicott was way off the mark on some things, a few of his comments struck too close to accuracy for Dean's liking. He did control things. He had to. His father had left Sam in his care more times than not, and had made it abundantly clear that he was to keep his little brother safe at all costs. A part of doing that meant he had to bury his own hurt and pain and accept the responsibility he had been given.

"So, what you're saying is that I should never get a job delivering mail." Dean tried to laugh off the doctor's observation, but it was met with stern disapproval. "There's nothing wrong with me," he quickly changed tactics, wanting to be far away from the institution before he actually started buying into the doctor's psycho bullshit. "I haven't done anything wrong, so you can't keep me here against my will."

"You struck a nurse and attacked several orderlies," Ellicott countered smoothly. "A court order says you belong here until such a time as you are no longer a threat to the public." He reached into Dean's file and yanked out an official looking piece of paper, and as he held it up for Dean to see a smile slid across his features. "So, yes, I can keep you here against your will."

Dean's eyelids suddenly grew heavy as whatever drug they pumped into his system stole away his desire to fight against whatever they planned to do to him. Ellicott's words all started to blend together, and sounded as if he was speaking in some demonic dialect that Dean had never heard before.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed movement coming from the cell across the hall, and tilted his head to the side to stare at the younger man who was now standing as close to the electrified glass as he possibly could without getting electrocuted. Through rapidly blurring vision, he could have almost sworn he saw the crazed man say something to him. The sandy-haired man backed away from the glass wall, smirked at Ellicott and then rushed headlong into the glass, only to be thrown backward to the floor. Clearly shaken but not detoured, he pushed himself to his feet and slammed into the glass partition again. White-hot sparks lit up the room as he flew to the ground.

"Stabilize patient 421-786," Ellicott abruptly called out as he shot to his feet and hurried toward the glass, partially blocking Dean's view of the man who was dragging himself up off the ground yet again.

Backing away, the madman charged at the glass once more, only to be flung to the floor, but this time he laid there twitching and jerking as white mist filtered into the room. Several men in military uniforms strode down the corridor to the man's cell, and entered his room as the glass partition slid open. As Dean lost the fight to remain conscious, they hauled the man to his feet and drag him away.

XxXxXxXxXxX

By the time Dean awoke again, the young man across the hall was back in his room and Ellicott was gone. The moment Dean pushed himself up in his bed, the man leapt from his own bed and rushed to the glass wall. Fighting back a wave of nausea, Dean made his way to his feet and trudged to the glass. His fellow captive pushed back his sleeves and turned his arms over, revealing swollen veins and track marks from whatever drugs they had given him. Then he repeatedly jabbed his index finger into his temple, and mouthed the words, "They take your mind. They take it an' don't give it back."

"Who are you?" Dean shouted, hoping that somehow he would hear him through the thick layers of glass that separated them. "How'd you get in here?"

Scratching his head as if in confusion, he held up a finger and scurried to the intercom beneath the camera. Dean watched as he pulled off the front panel and reworked the wiring until Dean could hear his voice coming through on his own intercom.

"I'm Keith . . . Keith Drakeson." He pointed to himself, and then gestured for Dean to go to his intercom. "They . . . they can't see you there." He pointed to the spot beneath Dean's camera. "Blind spot."

For a moment Dean stood stock still, wondering if he could trust the crazed man, but realized he had no choice in the matter. If he wanted to escape, he needed to know the layout of the institution, and Keith obviously had been there a while. He followed Keith's lead, and within a few minutes he had removed the intercom panel and played with the wires until he saw Keith nod that he could hear him.

He jabbed the button, and said, "How the hell do I get out of here?"

"No. No. No. No." He shook his head emphatically. "You can't go . . . can't go. They find you. They always find you." He pointed to the collar around his neck. "They wanna take the monsters away . . . can't come out an' play anymore. But they're the monsters. They hunt us . . .we hunt them . . . an' they win."

Dean quirked a brow in confusion. If he didn't know any better, he could've sworn Keith was talking about demons and other creatures instead of the kind of monsters Ellicott believed resided in their minds. "What are you talking about?"

"Hunters . . . you're a hunter, I'm a hunter," he splayed out his arms gesturing to all the cells, "everyone here's a hunter . . . they want us to forget. Call us crazy. But I know. I didn't forget." Again, Keith jabbed his finger into his temple. "I know. They can't take my mind. Black-eyed sonuvbitches try, but I won't let them."

"You're a hunter?" Dean fought back the sick feeling rising from the pit of his stomach. If what Keith said was true then not only was Dean in danger, but Sam, Bobby and every other hunter out there. "You can't be a hunter."

"Been to the Roosevelt Asylum lately?" Keith responded knowingly, and smirked when Dean nodded. "Lil' Molly is there . . . bitch gets in your head an' roots out your secrets . . . that's how they find you."

"Sammy," Dean breathed, his knees buckling, and had it not been for the wall holding him up he would have collapsed. "I gotta get out of here, my brother's in danger. Tell me how to get out of here."

"They don't let ya go until they've erased everything you know an' everything you are."

"That'll never happen," Dean vowed, touching the leather collar around his neck as he tried to figure out a plan to get out of there without getting himself killed in the process.

"Then you'll be like me, slowly going out of your mind, an' eventually you'll die here."


End file.
